


A Charger and A Champion

by orphan_account



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-07
Updated: 2015-11-08
Packaged: 2018-03-21 19:34:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 41,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3703151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Hawris/Fenhawke Dragon Age AU chapter fiction in which Fenris is a member of the Chargers and Garrett Hawke is an adviser to the Inquisitor in Skyhold. Set during the events of Dragon Age: Inquisition; be aware that massive spoilers are contained in the entire work of fiction.<br/>**Rated: M {Contains language, violence, death, blood and gore, alcohol use, sexual content}<br/>********on hiatus until further notice********</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Welcome to Skyhold

**Author's Note:**

> This story came about due to headcanons posted by dyr0z from tumblr . It can be found on their blog. G continually posts lovely additions to the Dragon Age community on a regular basis. Be it through art or headcanons. And not only do they do this on the regular, they spread positivity and general kindness. It has been a great pleasure of mine to be a mutual of yours. I do hope this pleases you. I wish for nothing but great things for you. I hope you enjoy.

__  
“For last year’s words belong to last year’s language. And next year’s words await another voice. And to make an end is to make a beginning.” - T.S. Eliot  


_**_

The wind bit and tore at their soakedclothing. Skin shrank from the chill, lips purpled and teeth slightly chattering –from the rain or the unrest, Inquisitor Lavellan wasn’t certain.

“Your men need to hold that position, Bull.”

“…They do that, they’re dead.”

The conflict was clear. If Bull chose one or the other, he was a betrayer. He either lost his home and all his culture, or he lost his men that trusted him so truly and unyielding. Lavellan glanced upwards at the towering mass of a Qunari. For once, he was so unbelievably small in comparison to what faced them.

Gatt was pacing back and forth in irritation, his eyes narrowed at the lack of response from Hissrad. That damn horned-idiot was going to toss all of their hard earned respect and work by the wayside for that badly patched mercenary group he’d thrown together on a passing fancy? Oh, his blood was boiling.

Iron Bull turned to Lavellan, unspoken pleas written upon his tongue. It was too much of a burden. He couldn’t choose. He wouldn’t.

The Dalish elf let out a heavy groan, his ribcage tight as he tried to sort through all the logical solutions deft and void of emotional downfalls. The ghastly wails of the Storm Coast filled his pointed-ears as he attempted a semblance of leadership. He’d drank and ventured with the Chargers. These were good men and women. Their hearts fought harder than their weapons. Their lives were given from loyalty, not greed.

“ _W-wait!_ ”

The sudden exclamation jerked the three men from their terse reverie. Lavellan looked downwards to find Varric Tethras approaching him in a fashion much more urgent and frantic than he’d remember ever seeing from the dwarf.

“What is it, Varric?” The Inquisitor breathed, fingers rubbing the crease between his brows.

The storyteller swallowed thickly, his blond hair pasting to his temples as he stared up at their leader in quiet urging. “You can’t let the Chargers die.”

“This is ridiculous!” Spat Gatt, his hands clenched into balls at his side now. Patience was wearing thin with this one. Lavellan made a quick mental note of that. He’d need to be watched.

“Continue, Varric.”

The dwarf glanced outwards to the adjacent cliff the Chargers had claimed moments earlier. The Venatori were stalking their direction, the mages in command uttering angrily in Tevene. The mercenary troupe held fast to their weapons, their eyes searching their commanders for orders. Fear kept them restless, dedication kept them steadfast.

“You can’t do it. You can’t. They’re good people. There aren’t enough of those in Thedas anymore, you know. Not to mention–” Varric’s eyes squinted towards one Charger in particular. The white hair and dark skin glistened and stood-out harshly against the lush environment. “ –if you value the stability of a most trusted adviser to the allied mages, you will not let them fall.”

Lavellan stared hard upon the dwarf’s face, eyes searching for his meaning.

“Boss,” Bull muttered, his good eye filled to the brim with too many emotions to fathom in the passing of a moment.

Varric’s brows knit together as he waited, “Inquisitor, please!” He owed that much to his very best of friends. He could not bear to see those shoulders slumped with loss again. He’d had more than his fair share of sorrow in such a short life – as many had. But he was different. He’d risen to the call of Thedas far too many times for his own happiness to be thrown away so nonchalantly. He’d helped oversee the rise of the mages and their downfall of the templar hold and order. He’d helped many find work and peace in a city of chains and oppression. He’d found place and foundation amongst peers that had scrutinized and degraded his Ferelden heritage. He’d answered the cries of his friends and stood strong to face their adversities with them. Never had he asked for anything in return. That’s the sort of person he was. For once, he’d found someone that had brought him a happiness of heart he had never once demanded for himself. Varric would be damned to hell if he watched that slip away because of political move.

The Inquisitor grit his teeth.

“Hurry!” Gatt growled, his impatience evident.

“Don’t do this. Don’t. Do. This.”

“ _Inquisitor_!”

–

“With the mages as our allies and not properly sanctioned, we must have order and proper training. Fiona is a valuable asset but unfortunately, their numbers are far too great for her to properly adhere to them all, as it should be. After all, even I have lieutenants to whom I can defer,” Cullen offered, his face grim (as usual).

“And where are we to find such a teacher? War is not kind to many mages. They will think they are being tricked,” Leliana sighed.

“Can you blame them? Too many lives have been butchered for the name-sake of the Chantry and ‘order’,” Josephine rebuked, her features illuminated by the flicker of her candle.

Cullen stiffened at this. Another argument was about to unfold inside the War room yet again. “And the Order was without cause through all of this?”

“Stop,” Lavellan grumbled, his blue eyes serious and just a little too red from lack of sleep.

“Inquisitor–”

“Arguing gets us no where. I must go and meet with Varric’s visitor concerning Corypheus. Put this on a shelf until I come back. Perhaps I will have more answers by then.”

The advisers nodded, the air still tense as the elf slipped past the heavy-wooden door.

–

The staff glittered brightly against his dark armor. The tall man threw Lavellan an awkward, impish example of a grin (as if he had all the secrets that he just wanted to illuminate but utterly refused to speak out of sheer torture). “Halla got your tongue, Inquisitor?”

 Lavellan broke free of his hesitation, his eyes focused upon Varric and his visitor once more. “S-sorry. I have heard stories, Champion, but to actually see first-hand that the Champion of Kirkwall is, indeed, a mage is something new within itself.”

 Garrett gave a light laugh, his elbow prodding Varric’s shoulder playfully, “Seeing my staff first-hand usually elicits that type of reaction, huh?”

Varric snorted, attempting to drink his alcohol in quiet. Of course, Hawke would  have none of it.

“Certainly you have questions about that plate-headed bastard Corypheus,  Inquisitor. Please tell me you do. Because if not, I’ve wasted a long trip here. Trust me when I say, I’ve had my fill of walking. You know, that’s all I bloody did in Kirkwall. Hawke this, Hawke that – they had us running all over the place.”

The Inquisitor laughed a bit, pleased at the relaxed air such a highly regarded figure exuded. “Don’t I know that feeling?”

 Hawke was leaning over the ramparts, his hand reaching to scratch at his beard. His eyes flitted over the layout of Skyhold, golden orbs taking in more than he would ever let on. In all his experience, the worst thing one could do would be to appear competent. That was when the enemy expected the onslaught that was to follow. Ignorance is bliss, after all. As he soaked in the green gardens and happy pilgrims, his body tensed as he made a sudden realization, “So Varric’s letters are not lying.”

“ _Hey_!” Varric shot back.

“Sorry! I didn’t really think it was a bunch of bullshit, but I know my trusty dwarf. Besides, seeing is believing.” Garrett nodded towards the courtyard, “Mages. I’ve seen nothing but mages. So the Inquisition has truly allied.”

Lavellan nodded, “Indeed.”

“Got a lot of flack for that one, didn’t ya?” The Champion mused, his face drawn with understanding at such a decision.

“You have no idea.”

The Ferelden shook his head, “oh, no, trust me, I do.” He grew introspective a moment before continuing, “I rather miss interacting with other mages. This one merchant in the Gallows of Kirkwall was always bustling about concerning magic and herbs. You know–”

That was when it dawned upon the Dalish. Of course, how simple a solution!

“Forgive me, Champion, but I do understand that you fled Kirkwall in fear of an Exalted March that never came.”

“What of it?”

“You have not been back since?”

“You know, I really don’t know why I don’t go back. I suppose it’s because so much has changed and there seems to be so much that needs to be done. I can’t sit back idly. Busy hands and all that.”

The Inquisitor gave a nod of recognition, index finger hooked under his chin in contemplation. It was certainly a sticky situation he currently found himself in. He already had plenty of individuals pledging themselves to the Inquisition as it was. Not to mention all the agents that he had acquired spread throughout Orlais and Ferelden. It seemed too much to ask of someone who had already shouldered far too heavy a burden. However, Thedas’ fate hung in the balance this time. Corypheus threatened all. And unfortunately to Hawke’s terrible luck, that directly involved him. And the man knew as much. Lavellan could see it written behind heavily-lidded eyes and worries creased into his forehead. He spoke nothing of trials and tribulations, but if ever tragedy was marked upon a soul, it was Garrett Hawke.

A soft chuckle reverberated through the elf’s ears, bringing him back to the forefront of the matter, “You’re wanting to ask something else, Inquisitor? Certainly it cannot be that hard to put into words,” Garrett mused, his eyes still holding the courtyard and the mages going about their lives rather happily (as much as the End of the World would allow). It was a truly touching experience. Anders would have loved to see such a state. Thankfully, the healer was put safely away from prying eyes and dangerous tempers somewhere on the road. He received letters from time to time. He would write to him once he was of time and liberty to do so. Such a radical change would not have been possible without his last effort to correct the suffering.

Lavellan sighed, “It seems I am found out.”

Varric laughed heartily, “Hawke’s good at that: sayin’ shit that you can’t. Gets us in trouble more than I care to admit.”

“You love it,” Hawke shot back.

The dwarf merely shrugged his shoulders in response, the grin hidden behind the rim of his drink.

“Aye, Ser Hawke. It seems that I have the unfortunate task of asking entirely too much of you once again.”

The Champion finally pushed himself from the stone wall, his black hair fluttering in the wind as he turned to face the newest hero of Thedas. He crossed his muscular arms, his white-smile flashing in response, “About time. Let’s hear it!”

–

“You cannot be serious!”

Josephine stood with her pen hesitant over the parchment, her soft eyes glittering at the current prospect. So it was to be of this nature, then?

Leliana smirked wickedly, her mischievous eyes glinting at the idea of it all, “It seems this has been arranged and agreed upon by the Inquisitor, Commander. I do believe we should support the new addition to our War Table.”

Cullen’s copper eyes were locked with amber across the large Oak table. The ornery pull that flickered back at him had him muted. “C'mon  _Commander_ , certainly we can work together for the greater good. Or am I forgetting our history together? I do recall you needing my assistance from time to time. And lest we forget our final encounter in Kirkwall. Were we not of the same side?”

Rutherford outwardly groaned, shoulders slumping in acceptance. He’d never hear the bloody end of it all. “Fine,  _fine_! I cannot continue to divide myself between the army and the mages any longer.”

“You oversaw the mages? Woof, brutal.”

“Hawke!” The Inquisitor warned, their own humor masked by a need to keep peace amongst his newly appointed adviser and his previous three.

Garrett waved him off in good nature, understanding all too well the air that came with his sarcastic tendencies, “Let us prepare a force for Corypheus to truly fear, no?”

Cullen glanced at the Champion’s outstretched hand, his arms tight with hesitance.

Leliana and Josephine waited with baited breath, their own acceptance over the matter already spoken into the air prior.

Lavellan gazed at Cullen quietly. One thing he knew well as a Dalish was pride. He knew of what an awful taste it left in one’s mouth if it was to be swallowed and set aside. But Cullen was a noble man with an even more noble heart. He would do what was best.

With a sigh, he grabbed Hawke’s hand and gave it a firm shake, “Welcome aboard, Adviser. May we triumph.”

The newly appointed mage adviser smirked, “Was there ever any other option?”

–

“These will be your quarters, Ser Hawke,” Josephine offered warmly, her accent heavy upon the quiet of the room he found himself standing in the center of. It overlooked the garden. The mantras of the faithful rang from below, enveloping his ear lobes like a buzzing bee.

“Sounds like a bee-hive down there.”

Montilyet sighed, clearly aware that he was not of the Chantry and of no mind to be near such a setting, “Unfortunately, it is the best accommodations we could spare on so short a notice. I will write to Val Royeaux for better furnishings and masons to better assist with preparing another room. It will be within the main mage tower. Until then, please accept this room.”

Garrett clasped a hand onto her ruffled shoulder, giving it a light squeeze, “Don’t go getting upset. I was teasing. This will be fine. Take your time with everything.”

Josephine gave him an awkward albeit genuine smile of relief, “Very well, Champion. Please come see me if you are in need of anything. I do hope your stay with us is as pleasant as one can afford in the middle of a war.”

As she made to leave, she was brought to a stop when he spoke again: “The small things, Ambassador. That is how you find pleasantries in the middle of war. If you spend too much of your time searching for something large to pull your attentions, you will never notice the everyday luxuries you had. Laughter is the best one, if I do say so myself.”

Ah, of course he would say that. Conceding to his valid point, she nodded, “Champion.” With a slight curtsy, she left finally.

Hawke glanced around the quaint room with an eager expression. There was much to be done. He had left nothing behind in Kirkwall that he did not know was in more than capable hands. His friends and brother were not of the victim-sort. They’d be fine a little longer. He could not have them fight at his side again. Even if he could not cash in on the peace, he’d let them enjoy theirs a little longer. It was the least he could do.

Setting his staff into a corner, he stretched with a loud groan of approval before he plopped heavily down upon his new bed. Flinging himself backwards to glance at the ceiling, he closed his eyes in anticipation of a quick sleep. The journey to Skyhold had been a long one, after all.

 _ **GrrrrrAUUUUGHHHHHHHHRRRRR**_.

His eyes snapped open, a hand falling to rest over his stomach. “Oh, man. Can’t go fooling you, can I?” He murmured as he sat upwards once more. The smell of the cooking ram meat wafted upwards through the floorboards from the kitchens.

Just a  _quick_  bite.

–

“Another mage? Excellent.”

Lavellan flicked through the book he found himself engrossed in. He uncrossed his achy legs as he spared a glance at Solas. The apostate paced about the rotunda, the hem of his tunic swaying with each footstep he took. “I knew you’d approve.”

Solas gave a rare, small smile, his eyes crinkled in delight, “It was only a matter of time before the Inquisition was in dire need of such an advantageous move. And the Champion of Kirkwall, no less.”

The younger male nodded, “He is quite qualified, would you not agree?”

“His participation will be of the utmost important in our battles to come.”

“ _Inquisitor! I am in need of your assistance._ ”

The Dalish glanced at Solas in confusion at the sudden introduction of another voice. Both elves tilted their heads upwards to find Dorian lazily leaning over the railing. Lavellan couldn’t help the timid smile that touched upon his mouth at this, “Of course, great scion of House Pavus.”

Dorian smirked, “Well, do hurry.”

The Inquisitor gave a shrug at Solas. The mage flit his fingers in dismissal and watched with a sigh as the young male darted up the stairs. With his mind full of thoughts beyond those of the mortal plane, Solas returned once again to his studies. So the Champion of Kirkwall, the Reclaimer of the Mage Rebellion joins the Inquisition…what a turn in the tides.

–

“Keep your shields high! Surely you know enough of combat now to know such a thing!” Cullen bellowed, his battle-worn eyes stern upon the soldiers as they sparred. They had come a long way since Haven. But this was still not good enough. Not nearly close. If another assault occurred, the defenses would only last so long. They would depend upon the soldiers to divert the aggressions while the mages focused upon Corypheus and possible healing measures. If the demons did not corrupt them first.

“If the mages are to stand a chance, you must hold your position!” He added, pausing only to glance over a new message delivered by one of Leliana’s men.  

“Oh, so that’s how it is, huh? Fragile little flowers and all that is what the mages are?”

“ _Maker’s breath_.”

“You know, Growler,” Hawke breathed, taking a step next to Cullen, “You give the mages far too little credit. And tell your men when they perform well. Certainly even you can admit that a word of praise in the belly of drained focus helps the cause along.”

“The day I take orders from you, Champion, is the day I find myself in the hangman’s noose.”

Garrett chortled in laughter at such an image, “Relax, would you? We’re working together, remember? I thought it best that I stand back and watch your regimen for your men before approaching the techniques to instill upon the mages. Both sides must be uniformed if we are to prevail, correct?”

Cullen stared at him hard before speaking again, “When did you get so serious?”

The Champion waved his hands in front of him quickly, his head shaking to concrete the matter, “Oh, no, no, no. Nothing like that. I’ve just been around here and there. You of all people know that unflinching rigidity is not something that always works.”

He had a point. The former templar gazed upon his worn men, their arms shaking from the weight of their blades and a long morning’s training. “Enough. Go to the barracks and rest.”

Hawke beamed proudly.

“This isn’t because you said something, Champion.”

“Oh?”

“No. If I hadn’t called it off for the day, I’d be stuck listening to you ramble on and on in my ears for the rest of the day.”

With that blunt remark, Cullen sauntered off after his troops.

Garrett laughed a bit, shaking his head as he made his way to the mage tower. Now that the training ring was free of the soldiers, the mages could properly begin their own training.

–

Bull stood next to the pub, his large arms folded in observation when the Inquisitor found him.

“Bull.”

“Boss! Good to see ya.”

“Likewise.”

“I see there’s a new face. Another one of those advisers, huh? From what I’ve gathered, it’s the Champion. The one that killed the Arishok while the Qunari were hold up in Kirkwall.”

“You’re well-informed for only a morning to gather information.”

“Ben-Hassareth.”

“Of course.”

“So what’s he to do here?”

“He is the adviser on all things magic. He will serve to train the mage refugees and recruits. With the help of Fiona, of course. He will also serve as a fourth opinion inside the War Room…also, could you keep this out of your reports to the Qun?”

Iron Bull gazed at the Dalish for a moment before returning his focus to the mages currently training, “We’ll see. A solid decision, Boss.”

“I aim to please.”

The Qunari snorted, rolling his good eye, “I hear lots of stories regarding this Ferelden. Most of them coming from Varric’s own mouth.”

“He’s quite a figure, for certain. Perhaps you should speak to him later.”

“I had intended to. Varric wanted to play a game of Wicked Grace with the Chargers and the Champion as a way to introduce him to Skyhold. You in? The Chargers have been askin’ about ya, anyway.”

Lavellan cocked a brow, “You’re wanting all my coin, aren’t you?”

“Just a side benefit of it all, Boss.”

“Of course.”

Bull gave a dip of his chin as Krem and a few of the other Chargers came to stand next to their captain. “How was that sweep of Haven with the rest of Cullen’s troops, Krem-brulee?”

Krem gave a disgusted face, his brows furrowed as he shook his head, “We just got back, Chief. Must you start with that nonsense already?”

Iron Bull continued to stare at the man a long moment before the younger male sighed, “Anyway, there were some lingering demons but most of what we found was rubble.”

Dalish spoke up at this, her eyes on the mages in the distance far off, “What’s this, then?”

“The new adviser,” Lavellan offered, his eyes following Hawke’s instructions and movements closely. In all honesty, he’d never seen mages fight in this manner.

“Use your staff’s blade! It’s not there for decoration!” Garrett called out as he dodged a spiral of fire that had been hurled his direction. “If the enemy is too far upon you, you must ward him backwards with simple combat techniques. Just because you are gifted with magic does not make it your only ability. Do not rely solely upon it. You must be quick!”

Hawke held up his hand to bring the onslaught to a stop. His pulse was quickened and his features glistened with the beginnings of sweat as he brought his own staff’s blade flush into the dirt. “We must use an example.”

The opposing mages were doubled over, holding onto their knees as they attempted to catch their breath.

Bull’s eye brightened at this, “Oh, oh. He’s lookin’ for a fight! My kinda guy already! Boss, boss,  _boss_ –”

“–No, Bull. The mages need to learn.”

“But he just said he needs an example for them.”

“They’ll be too busy watching your big arse fling around that battle axe instead of genuinely paying attention.”

The Charger captain sighed, lip wibbling outwards in a pout.

Hawke glanced around fervently, his eyes still searching.

“Chief, certainly you could afford to inform us whenever there’s a new missive sent out that directly involves us,” a raspy voice grumbled, agitation clear even without registering the face.

“Listen here, Sparkles–” Bull tried, his index finger pointing at the approaching elf.

Lavellan stole a glance at the elf. He’d met him a while back when Bull had first introduced the Chargers to him upon their arrival to Skyhold. He hadn’t spoken much. Instead, he’d sat quiet. He spoke only when spoken to, mostly. Although, he always seemed to have a mouthful whenever Dalish was going on about her 'bow’. She claimed not to be a mage but the staff and distrust inside the other elf’s face whenever he spoke to her said otherwise. He was unusual as far as elves were concerned. He was not of Dalish decent, and yet he bore markings through his skin. Far from the tattoos that covered the Inquisitor’s own face, he found that this elf bore markings down into the very depths of his skin; almost like bone. His hair was an unnatural white. It stood bright against his darker skin and piercing green eyes. He was languid and lanky, his muscles toned from plenty of fighting (among other histories). He brandished a two-handed weapon that nearly stood taller than he did. He wore no shoes save for wraps upon his feet. His armor was made of black leather, the shoulders spiked and unapproachable. Much like his apparent personality. His metal gloves spiked into make-shift claws, gathering into his gauntlets. He often spoke in Tevene. This the Inquisitor only knew from his associations with Dorian Pavus. The man also knew of some Qunlat, as he often added a quick jab at Bull in his native tongue whenever he spoke idiocies.

The Inquisitor knew little of him. And the other elf had settled on that notion being perfectly fine. He spoke to few and socialized with even fewer. Lavellan knew the Chargers referred to him as 'Sparkles’. But he had heard, when Bull was certain no one else was listening, that his name happened to be Fenris.

“ **You**!”

The bickering elf and his captain ceased all topic of conversation at the interjection. Lavellan looked at Hawke. The adviser was pointing their direction.  

“Me, he picked me!” Bull exclaimed, excitement evident.

Hawke laughed at this, shaking his head, “No offense, big guy. Last time I tangled with one of you, I nearly died. Let me shake off a bit of the rust and we can have at it, alright?”

Bull frowned.

“No, no, you! Right there.”

Lavellan knew he wasn’t the subject. Glancing down the line, he found Krem and Fenris glaring at one another.

“He means you, Tevinter.”

“Pretty sure it’s not me.”

“Yes, it is!”

Garrett let out a groan, his face expectant, “C'mon! You!”

Krem pointed at his own chest, but the Champion shook his head, “No, next to you.”

Bull laughed loudly, “That means you, Sparkles. Get up there. Make papa proud.”

Fenris’ eyes narrowed upon those of the burly mage calling out to him. Green locked with amber irises, his jaw set in refusal. He’d be damned if he got anywhere near that damn mage. He’d be damned to hell.


	2. The Unsuspecting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Inquisition must continue about its daily run of business. Political exchanges and intrigues take the Inquisitor and newly appointed Mage Adviser far from Skyhold. Upon their return, an unexpected encounter in the gardens leaves someone more stressed than at peace with the Maker.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the heart and conscious of good story development, please be patient with certain paces. Love does not blossom overnight, much to the chagrin of all of us. :)

“ _Now they were strangers; nay, worse than strangers, for they could never become acquainted_.” - Jane Austen,  Persuasion

**

 

It was painful enough working alongside Dalish and her 'bow'.

 “ _No_.”

 Garrett blinked, “What?”

 “I said 'no', mage!"

 “You're makin' me look bad, Sparkles! The reputation of the Chargers is on the line!” Bull groaned as he made to push the elf from behind. However, Fenris was much too fast for the hulking Qunari.

 Ducking away from his grasp, Fenris held a finger upwards in defiant dismissal, “That's...not true. We've only just returned. I would be a poor example for the trainees.”

 Garrett cocked a brow, his breathing steadying as he waited for the elf. He couldn't quite make out what the group was going on about, but it was taking far too long. And he still was without a sparring partner. Perhaps he was a bit more intimidating than he thought?

 “If you can't do it, don't worry about it.”

 Fenris' planned rebuttal to Bull fell from his tongue in a sudden inhale of offended silence. He spun around to stare at the mage. His dark eyebrows were pressed together in amused defiance. What had that magic user just said?

 Hawke shrugged, blinking in confusion, “If it's too much pressure, don't stress yourself out over it. Maybe next time, right?”

 The elf bristled, his back straightening a little too tightly. Bull prodded the Inquisitor, his face highly entertained. Apparently he knew all-too-well the extent of Fenris' pride. For being so quiet and of a smaller stature, the courage surging through his frame was immense in supply. Lavellan gave a slight smile. He could use more recruits in the Inquisition like that. Hell, he could use some of that bravery from time to time himself.

 “Listen here--” Just as Fenris was about to let into the man, a messenger was jogging their direction.

 Lavellan lifted his head at the approach. For once, however, the message was intended for someone other than himself. “Ser Hawke.”

 Garrett turned away from the outraged elf, his confusion evident as he greeted the spy. The two shared a quick work with one another before the messenger left as quickly as he had arrived. Returning his focus to the now silent mages, Hawke scratched the back of his head, “Guess that's it for today. Seems like I need to run an errand already.”

 He attached his staff back onto his shoulders, his warm eyes glancing backwards at the Chargers and a purely-riled Fenris, “Next time.” And with that, he was headed back towards Skyhold.

 Bull slapped Fenris across the shoulder-blades, his laughter so loud it bellowed through all of the courtyard, “Damn, Sparkles. I ain't never had the privilege of seein' ya so mad before. I gotta tell the rest of the Chargers.”

 The Inquisitor swallowed his own smirk of delight in favor of appearing without interest, “Bull. That messenger just now probably had a missive for us as well. Prepare for a journey.”

 “Right on, Boss.”

 Krem rolled his eyes at Fenris –tone filled with mirth-- before slipping into the pub, “Mabaris with the loudest bark rarely have a bad bite.”

 Fenris grudgingly tore his eyes from staring daggers into the retreating back of the mage adviser, “If you would like to test this theory, Vint, I encourage you to do so. You'll find I am not the average 'dog'.”

–

 Lavellan entered the War Room nearly after Hawke had gone inside. The large Ferelden was leaning over the map, looking across at Cullen through his black hair, “Listen, Growler, I just got here. Don't tell me you want me gallivantin' across Ferelden again.”

 Cullen stared at him in muted annoyance, his fingertips twitching just over the hilt of his sheathed sword, “This simply bears to be that of a magical construct.”

 “Last time I went runnin' through decrepit towers, I helped bring about this whole blighted horror of a lobster that is Corypheus.”

 The Dalish elf crept forward to glance at the parchment placed before Hawke, along with the new-found Mage tokens littering the war table. The iron statuettes were shaped into that of a staff surrounded by a ring of fire. Garrett seemed to notice it at the exact same time. He gruffly reached for one, examining it closely. He stayed silent a while before placing the token next to his cheek, his eyes mirthful and ornery as he spoke again, “Cuuuute.”

 Rutherford let out the loudest groan, something akin to torture. “Could you not?”

 “I could. But I won't.”

 Josephine cleared her throat, her perfect posture straightening once more as she attempted to resume the meeting, “Now that the Inquisitor has joined us, let us continue. It seems Arl Teagan of Redcliffe has sent a letter concerning the state of his village in the aftermath of the mage occupation. Seeing as how the Champion has had prior dealings with King Alistair and Teagan during his stay in Kirkwall, we thought it best to send the current Mage Adviser as a sign of goodwill.”

 “How is sending the man that helped with the mage uprising a sign of goodwill? ...exactly?” Lavellan mused, his ears twitching.

 “Teagan trusts Alistair. Alistair sought out the Champion's continued aid to Kirkwall. Clearly, that states that the King trusts the Champion. Teagan has asked that this be resolved without involving the crown. And as an extra display of both caution and political reach, we will have the newly appointed Mage Adviser deliver our condolences. It's two birds, one stone.”

 “Messy death, that. Can you imagine the clean-up?” Hawke mused, his body shaking with that of a chill.

 Lavellan raised a brow, his eyes returning once again to the map of Orlais and Ferelden. Too many pieces littered the surface. It was nearly colored that of the iron instead of the original stain of parchment and colored pens. It seemed that Thedas would not rest until every last concern was dealt with. Never mind the Corypheus threat.

 “I take it that you are against this notion, Hawke?”

 Garrett glanced sideways at Lavellan, “As you well know, Inquisitor, I am the Champion of Kirkwall. Glorious as a title that may be, my stories have been told throughout Thedas. They are not always flattering. Especially among those of the _devout_ nature,” He added, eyes flicking to Cullen briefly.

 The former-templar sucked on his teeth, a soft 'tsk' filling the room.

 Lavellan nodded his understanding, “What if we supply a few of the men from the troops so that you may have a small entourage?”

 Hawke hesitated a moment. It was a fidget, more like.

 “Well?” Leliana asked, her tone careful. She knew the Champion to be of an understanding temperament. But much had changed since their last encounter. She stood as a portrait of such things.

 “I have a request.”

 “Name it,” Inquisitor Lavellan encouraged, his face hopeful.

 “Varric comes with me? What good is a Champion without his trusty dwarf?”

 The Dalish male snickered, all-too-thrilled to oblige, “Deal.”

–

 “You know, you really went a made that Charger-boy mad, Hawke.”

 Garrett glanced down at Varric, nostalgia rushing over him as the dwarf meandered at his side. Too much like their time spent in Kirkwall.

“The who?”

 “You know, that white-haired one. Always miffed about something. I call him 'Broody'.”

 Hawke stared at him with a vague expression plastered on his face, “You're going to have to be more specific.”

 “You don't remember? How can you _not_ remember?”

 “One too many hits in the head from an Arishok, I'm afraid.”

 “Oh, right. That'll do it.”

 “...well?”

 “The one you tried to spar with the other day during training--? You know, I went to play a game of Wicked Grace with that lot and all I heard was that poor man grumbling and groaning all through the night about 'good-for-nothing mages' and 'stinky Fereldens'.”

 Hawke touched his chest in mock offense, “How rude! I had been training the mages all afternoon. Works up a sweat, you know.”

 Varric gazed at him coolly, his brow cocked, “I highly doubt it was that specific of an insult, Hawke. Besides, you're missing the point here. Andraste's ass, Hawke, do you even really remember much of it at all?”

 Garrett threw him a sheepish grin, “Uh, no?”

 The dwarf sighed, rubbing his temples, “Well, remember or not, I think you already made an enemy at Skyhold.”

 The Champion sniggered, “Add him to the list. Him and Cullen can share a bunk.”

–

 A few weeks passed. The pull of summer was in full-circle by the time the Inquisitor found his way back to Skyhold from his trip to the Emerald Graves. The ever-expanding presence of the Red Templar army was becoming too much a force to simply dismiss on the sigh of one's breath. The mages that served the Would-Be-God Corypheus made things more difficult. For all the steps in correcting the unwarranted hate the mages of Thedas endured, eyes looked too closely for mistakes and any form of reconsideration. These enemy mages aided in this endeavor a little too easily.

 “If I never see another giant again, it'll be too soon,” Dorian whined, his worn hand reaching to run over his coiffed hair. The typically resilient strands held pieces of sweat and wear from their journey. It had been particularly taxing on the outlander from Tevinter. He'd nearly been thrown off the side of a cliff a few times by a giant. At one point, there had been two singling in on him in particular. Iron Bull had sworn it was all the shiny buckles and bangles he adorned his dark skin with. That had earned a derisive scoff and shake of his head. Lavellan concluded, in secret, that it had actually been the fine oils that Dorian often bathed in. His aroma was particularly intoxicating. Sometimes Inquisitor Lavellan found himself hazy in the presence of the proud mage. Be it from the oils, or something else, he was uncertain. He'd chalk it up to the scent, for now.

 “Yes, of course. I do apologize for any inconvenience the trip may have caused you,” Lavellan teased, blue eyes dancing in mirth.

 Dorian glanced at him, his irritated expression immediately softening into a small smirk, “Oh, the _scenery_ was more than enough to make up for it.”

 There was a disgusted groan from behind them. In two strides, Cassandra was muscling past them in an effort to escape the flirting of the oblivious Dalish elf and the daring Tevinter Altus, “This is ridiculous!”

 Sera sniggered at this, hurrying after her to make kissy slurps and moaning noises, “Swords, right? Ughhhh.”

 Leliana came to the first flight of steps leading into the main tower of Skyhold, “Inquisitor, a moment?”

 Pavus hesitated only briefly. Shooting a quick look at Lavellan, who had yet to realize any fascination had been thrown his way at all, before he shook his head with a chuckle. He gave a nod of his head in greeting to the spymaster before he disappeared inside.

 “Of course. What is it?”

 “My scouts send word. It seems our quick alliance with Fairbanks has proven useful. He will be arriving shortly with new information for holding the Emerald Graves.”

 “So eager an ally. It has been quite a while since we've had the good fortune.”

 “I quite agree. Also, Inquisitor--” Leliana breathed, her eyes drifting to a near-by spy. The man nodded, stepping forward with a silver staff, two serpents intertwined to form around a precious gem. “It seems our expedition to locate the weapon of Trydda Bright-Axe has been fruitful. I am aware that you are not of the magical gift, Inquisitor, however, I do believe this to be a rare acquisition nonetheless. Perhaps one of our mages will be of some mind to uncover the secrets the staff has to offer?”

 Lavellan smiled, taking the weapon with a gracious interest, “Excellet work, spymaster.”

 “Careful with that. You go pointing your staff at anyone so willy-nilly means you might end up having to buy drinks later. Trust me, it never works out.”

 The two jerked around to find a travel-worn Varric and Hawke approaching.

 Varric chuckled lightly, fatigue evident as he stood close to his dear friend on a step below the platform, “Did you know that rams are aggressive if you sing loud and off key? Because apparently, they are. Andraste's ass, send me back to the city.”

“I didn't know, alright? Every animal I've ever been around absolutely adores me. And why shouldn't they? Have you met me?”

 Lavellan blinked, “You two are only just returning from Redcliffe?”

 “Only?” Hawke murmured, his hands placed on his lower back as he stretched, “Arl Teagan is more of a partier than I remember him being.”

 “Apparently the Champion of Kirkwall visiting Redcliffe was more of a grand-standing occasion than a rebuilding of the village.”

 Garrett yawned heavily, “I think I'm still drunk.”

 “You smell it,” Varric added, his eyes twinkling mischievously.

 The snort he earned in retort had been all the answer the dwarf had been looking for. For the love of Andraste, he'd missed the big oaf.

 “So, job well done, Inquisitor. The Inquisition once again has the allegiance and support of Redcliffe and much of Ferelden,” the Champion offered, a thumbs up his seal of approval.

 “With that, I'm hittin' the hay,” Varric muttered, his thickly-gloved fingertips running through his short strands of hair. He gave the Inquisitor a soft smack of greeting as he passed.

 The three watched him go before Lavellan spoke again, “Your trip and effort was much appreciated, Champion.”

 “I have a few things to add, Inquisitor.”

 The elf turned around, the braid in his hair 'thunking' against his leather gear as he did so, “Oh?”

 “Red templars are littering the hillsides of Ferelden. In greater a number and supply than I have yet to see. They are multi-faceted and quick to attack. This speaks ill for any travelers.”

 “Truly?” Leliana asked quietly, her eyes focused far away as she contemplated the news. Her spies had sent missives of such things, but to have a force such as Garrett Hawke confirm them was an entirely new entity in itself.

 “My warden friend will be able to help us figure out a few lingering details, Inquisitor. Perhaps we should seek him out sooner rather than later?”

 Lavellan gave a grave nod, “Agreed. I fear I have been summoned--”

 “-- _Invited_!” Leliana corrected, her brows knit together in warning.

 The elf sighed, “'Invited' to a ball at the Winter Palace. It seems Duke Gaspard intends to make a grand display with the Inquisition as his puppet.”

 Hawke nodded, “Those parties are brutal. Good food, though.”

 “I will be leaving for Orlais within the next two weeks. When I return, we will meet with your warden contact, Ser Hawke.”

 “As you say, Inquisitor.”

 Garrett gave a quick salute before he turned to make his way to his temporary housing. His chain mail boots echoed through the larges halls of Skyhold. Many turned to gaze upon him as he made his lonely retreat back to his room. He scratched at the back of his neck as he made his way through the sets of doors, his armor clanking and staff stirring as he jogged up the staircase. He stole a passing glance at the Orlesian mage adviser to the Imperial Court. She stood fine among her silks and Satins. She gave a silent incline of her head in acknowledgment. She spoke little to anyone. Him in particular. He could practically taste her disdain as he slipped passed the door. Her familiarity and upheaval to reestablish the Circle was not made quiet. Often times he found her harshly offering the opinion to the Inquisitor himself. She was not a woman to be made light of. And why should she be? She was successful, strong, intelligent, and rich to boot. And unlike most of those wrapped delicately inside the walls of Skyhold, she knew exactly who she was.

 Hawke walked along the side of the garden roof. He caught the scent of marigolds as he approached his out-of-sight room. Instantly, his mind drifted to Aveline and her husband Donnic. How were they now? She remained guard captain. He knew as much. They'd have to drag her out by her long red ponytail if they wanted her out of there.

 He lingered at the thought. His fist covered his lips to quiet a round of laughter that threatened to overtake the entire garden community. The image was too much to bear.

–

 Down in the gardens, the Chantry sisters sang their hymns and prayed their over-used prayers. Some Orlesians incited conflict with one another through thickly-accented conversation. Some mercenaries gave half-hearted donations to the statues, willing to pray to any god or goddess that would hear them. No mages came to the garden. In fact, they blatantly avoided it. Most of them, anyway. For that, many were thankful. One mage in particular, however, made home just above the foliage and general population.

 The discovery had been made when the Charger with a past too-big for even him to accept fully found his eyes drifting towards the rooftops. He'd heard heavily-clad footsteps; fatigue, and a possible injury. Curious as to the owner of the worn legs, the elf stole a curious gaze upwards. To what he found, he was unpleasantly surprised.

 “It's that damn mage,” He hissed, his ears folding downwards in agitation.

 As the male drew further into the garden area, the magical aura pricked and pin-needled the Lyrium of his flesh. He gave a soft curse under his breath as he scratched the marks quickly.

 The armor the mage was outfitted with was worn and muddied from travel. His face was drawn from lack of sleep and his hair was tugged in a few different directions from wind and encounters with enemies. His spine was curved in exhausted, his skin a shade darker. The sun had painted him during his travels, it seemed. Just when Fenris was fed about as much as he could stomach of the annoying human, something happened.

 The mage froze on the spot. He lifted his arm and giggled so warmly into his fist that Fenris was certain it was a coughing fit. When the delight continued, however, the elf found himself openly watching. The lines of wear lifted, along with his brows, as his lips separated to expose white teeth and a warm, brassy voice. His rich, copper eyes danced like pools of water disturbed from the caress of the wind. Whatever seemed to be of the utmost hilarity, it continued to entice the Ferelden's humor for a good while before dissipating. With a clearing of his throat and a gasp for air, the adviser disappeared behind a door that surely led to his quarters.

 Fenris stood for a long while to simply gaze at the spot where the mage had once been standing.

“Something up there?” Gatsi the dwarf questioned, his beady-eyed stare following that of the Charger's.

 The Tevinter elf shook his head quickly. He let out an aggravated growl of disapproval in retort, “Can't a man look around a fortress?”

 The dwarf blinked in confusion, “I just--”

 “Leave it!” Fenris shot back, his pace back towards the pub a little-too-hurried even for his own liking. Why was he so on edge? What had he just witnessed? Some sort of magic? Was this the mage's way of attacking him for not sparring with him a few weeks ago?

 Krem jerked from a near-napping state when the pub door was kicked open. The other Chargers spared him a look before returning to their previous tasks. It was normal of the elf to have a brooding fit. This one seemed inherently bad, however.

 “Problem?” Iron Bull quipped as he attempted to scratch a horn by rubbing it against the window frame.

 “No,” Fenris shot back, his eyes glinting dangerously.

 “Alright then, Sparkles. Calm down. How about a round? I'll buy. It's my turn. Going to drink something other than that poor excuse for wine?”

 At the Iron Bull's incessant prodding, the white-haired elf sighed, “Make it two rounds.”

 Bull laughed, “Alright, but next time there's a game of Wicked Grace, you're playin'. Deal?”

 Fenris contemplated the horrible fate before rolling his eyes in acceptance, “Deal.”

 

 


	3. To the Victor go the Spoils

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the sparring session all of Skyhold has been waiting for. Finally, the mage-templar rivalry continues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains alcohol use.

 

“ _There is no such thing as an accident; it is fate misnamed._ ” - Napoleon Bonaparte

**

 

The grounds were bustling with word of the sparring match that had taken place just moments earlier. It had finally found its way to the Chargers and Iron Bull. The company had been going over reports and letters home when a particularly giggly human woman who answered to the name of Flissa came bounding inside the pub. “I can't believe it! Hurry to the courtyard.!”

Bull tilted his head, more curious as the moment wore on, “What's this about, woman?”

The former-barmaid spared him a fleeting look, her eyes entirely eager and alight in excitement, “It's a duel.”

“Duel?” Stitches questioned, tone aggressive.

“Aye! Between Advisers! Commander Cullen is squaring off against the Champion of Kirkwall! C'mon!” She cried, as she tore out the door again.

Fenris' interest caught on the last piece of information she let loose upon the pub before disappearing in a mad dash of wiles. The Champion of Kirkwall? That mage was fighting a former-templar? If there was to ever be a blood bath, this would be it. In an effort to qwell his heightened heartbeat, the swordsman turned towards the head of the company, “Shall we not go spectate with the others?”

Bull sighed, “I guess so. Not really eager to see another mage and templar have at it.”

“I bet it's a gambling crowd,” Cabot drawled, his towel being displaced as he too went to watch.

At this, the Qunari's interest sparked, “4 gold: the mage wins!”

Fenris and the other Chargers smirked, “We'll take those odds!”

–

Cullen had shrugged off his heavy fur coat by the time most of the crowd had arrived. He rolled his armored shoulders –testing-- before he made a reach for his weapon. The sword was basic, but sturdy. The Inquisition shield glistened in the hints of sunlight peeking through cloud-bursts. He took hold of the shield handle into deft hands, his gloves squeaking at how hard he held the metal. His eyes held no mark of gentleness, much as they always did. His eyes crinkled as he squinted at the Champion across from him. He was the epitome of war and a well-taught soldier in unforgiving lives-past.

“Are you ready, Champion?” The commander called from his spot across the ring. It was much larger than it had been originally. With many altercations alleviated inside the training grounds, it had become plotted with holes and uneven footing. Much like a harsher terrain, it sufficed. But with more recruits came a need for more space and less time. So Josephine had commissioned to have it enlarged. Several pairs of soldiers could spar off now without so much as coming close to brushing arms with any of the other participants. Here, the two advisers would have a mini-battlefield.

Hawke, on the other hand.

The former-noble was splayed lethargically against wooden railing, his elbows the only steadying grace he had to keep him from toppling backwards and flipping to the ground. He wore robes today, free of the heavy toil of the Champion armor Kirkwall had adorned him with. The black leather of the fabric licked at his booted ankles, dancing across the tops of his feet as soft tufts of the air passed by in greeting. A fine belt brought them snug to his firm hips and torso, freeing his legs to do as they pleased. Gray pants poked into few from time to time, much to the chagrin of many women and several men. The symbol of the Free Marches tattooed the back of his garment in a blood red, flexing with each roll of his shoulder blades. He had spent much of his 'preparation' watching Cullen in mock-curiosity, his black hair bouncy with silent laughs. Haphazardly, he wrapped cloth over his palms to protect them from any callouses he might have been sporting in private from his time away from Skyhold. With a grunt out of drowsiness, the mage made a reach for the nearly-overlooked staff. The clear stone shimmered as it was moved from its spot of rest. Prisms of color skirted across the eyes of onlookers, many of them thrilled at the prospect of what was to come shortly after. Once his fingertips were placed firmly around the staff's grip, the jewel sprang to life with a buzzing of magical energy and unaware whispers from the Fade.

Garrett gave a mock-bow, his knees bending as he did so, “Why, of course, Commander.”

Cullen upright frowned, his brows pressed together and marring his young forehead, “Do take this seriously, for once.”

“I wouldn't dream of anything other than the like. Now, the stakes?”

“It's merely a demonstrative training exercise, Hawke. As I recall, you had planned for one prior to your being expedited to Redcliffe.”

“Right, right. That's true and all, but...” His tan eyes sparked in rivalry, “...what good is a 'duel' amongst advisers if there is to be no prize?”

Cullen scowled, “Not every bout in life is a competition, Champion. You'd do well to remember you cannot always claim a prize.”

Hawke's expression turned shocked, “I can't?”

At that, the Inquisition Commander took a defensive stance, the hilt of his sword clashing loudly against the metal wall of his shield, “Arms ready.”

Oh, so perhaps this display was more to the former-templar than he let on. He'd known that his embarrassment in Kirkwall at having not known Meredith's inner-machinations had caused him severe doubt within his own person. He'd heard from Varric through various letters. He hadn't been kidding when he had mentioned the poor blond needing a dog to love on.

Garrett spun the staff around in skilled, nimble fingers. His eyes finally narrowed; pupils shrinking as the scent of discord filled the air. Battle brought forth the best in Hawke. He knew as much. He'd spent a year as a mercenary in Kirkwall confirming the very notion. In idle conversation, he was clumsy and ignorant to the whims and desires of others (much as his intentions were always otherwise). In actuality, Hawke wanted to spend thoughtfulness of his friends and those of the like. Sometimes his tact, however, were a bit lacking. But whenever he took to the battlefields, he was in his element.

Cullen watched the display with quiet breaths, his focus following every last detail to his utmost ability. He would not allow the Champion to take another semblance of pride from him once more. He'd been too blind to stop Meredith. Too many had died because of his foolishness. Hawke had been there to rectify his mistakes as a Knight-Captain. This was his redemption. This victory had to belong to him.

–

The spectators waited in baited breath as the two figures paced about one another. Cullen sized and studied his adversary. Hawke waited and memorized the breathing patterns of the other man. Magic was best used when an opponent was already on the defensive. The fear of what the magic could unfurl was often more than enough to send anyone to their defeat early. Cullen would be tricky. The younger male hid his emotions well once of the mind.

“C'mon, man. Any longer and I'll be a statue in the garden with Andraste!” Garrett teased, his taunt falling upon weak ears.

The commander let out a yell of warning and aggravation, his shield held high to his eyes. In that moment, his blade was raised. The razor glinted as it swung towards the burly Ferelden. Oh, he was quick!

A few steps backwards and a juke away from the advancing man was all the time Hawke needed. A blue shimmer of protection fell down his head to his toes, coursing over his skin like water. With his barrier in place, he switched his tactics. Planting his dominant side firm against the rush of his opponent, he fluidly brought his staff's gem in front of him. It began to glow a bright, sickening yellowish-red color. In the next moment, a hiss came from the spell freeing itself from the hafted weapon.

With a whisper of a prayer to the Maker, Cullen's shield covered its owner eagerly. The flames spilled around the metal and spared the man of any pain. At this, Hawke was pleased. Had it been a real encounter, his spell would have been more than he cared to cast at the poor believer standing before him. It was a training exercise, after all.

“Do not hold back, Champion.”

Garrett snickered, “Caught on, did you?”

“If I cannot survive this mere training exercise, then I am of no competition to the enemy.”

The Champion of Kirkwall conjured a rushing wall of spirit energy around himself, the velocity of it throwing his robs and hair into a storm, “Oh c'mon, Growler, don't go gettin' all hellbent on me.”

Mages and soldiers crowded closer, their eyes wide as they watched their respective instructors trade blows for magic. Magic for shield bashes.

Both men smiled in satisfaction as the exchange intensified. Today would be a good day.

–

Fenris stood next to Bull, his arms crossed over his chest as he watched the sparring match in silence. Bull was raging on and on, yelling at the top of those big-qunari lungs at any moves he found to be particularly invigorating.

“You're like a child,” the elven male grumbled, his eyes never leaving the sparring ring.

Bull guffawed gruffly, his throat hoarse from shouting, “Do you see this, Sparkles? Do you actually _see_ this?! I don't know about you but it's damn entertaining. Look at the Commander's technique! Say what you want about templars but they sure as hell can craft some fine soldiers.”

“Hmm,” the shorter of the two breathed, his gauntlets rattling as he scratched his white hair in contemplation.

“That coulda been you, ya know.”

Fenris spared him a momentary gaze upwards, “How so?”

The horned-male gave a jerk of his head, indicating the ring. The two tragic tales of Thedas, mage and templar, continued to spar with one another. The dust and dirt filled the air, causing several on-lookers to take steps backwards to keep from coughing fits. “You could have been the sparring partner.”

Green eyes flickered back to the two men, his face drawn in speculation and concentration, “What of the mage, Bull?”

Iron Bull blinked, “That's the Champion of Kirkwall. Not just any mage, ya know.”

“Fancy titles mean nothing.”

The Qunari chose to let that comment sink like a weight in the air. He dared not touch upon the past he knew was boiling just under the surface of Fenris' exterior.

“Anyway, back to the fight. You asked about the way Hawke fights, right? He's different from any mage I've ever seen.”

Fenris scowled, the disgust growing. Of course he was. The more mage-like the man was, the worse he fell in the elf's good opinion. For with more magic, he found, came more suffering and less consciousness of the fine line.

“I mean, just look,” Bull continued, his overly large finger pointing.

Garrett had pushed off from the balls of his feet, his staff flipping as the blade became the dominant part of his weapon. He rushed towards Cullen, the smaller blade crying out in a high pitched scream as it slid down the shield hungrily. Cullen's blade retaliated, the sword high over his head as he brought it down towards a seemingly defenseless Hawke. In an instant, the elder Hawke brought back his staff. The staff-blade caught Cullen's own, deflecting the weapon. With a growl of exertion, Hawke cast a spell. A loud puff of concentrated air threw Cullen backwards and downwards. “I should have bet you that you'd have to personally clean my clothes for a week!”

Rutherford groaned as he climbed to his feet, his knees shaky from the magical energy still swarming about him. It hadn't hurt. No, on the contrary, it had been a rather gentle ride through the air. It was the fall to the ground that had him gasping for breath.

Hawke cast another barrier before rushing forward again.

Bull smiled so broadly that his company was certain it would fall clean off his narrow face, “Did you see that?! He runs to the front of the line. Most mages stay fortified behind defenses and the security of distance. The Champion rushes straight towards the battle.”

Fenris scrutinized more closely, his noes crinkled as he remained transfixed in his disgusted aura. What the chief said was correct, however. The dark-haired man was utterly fearless. His staff was a weapon through and through. It held no weak points. Much like its wielder.

“Seen too many battles, that's what that means,” Bull continued, his musing quiet this time. “Brave, that one.”

The elf gazed back towards the sparring match, his dark brows knitting together as he contemplated what Iron Bull had said. Brave? A mage? Preposterous.

–

Oh, now he'd definitely never hear the end of it.

“So that means?”

“Yes, Champion.”

Hawke's insatiable need to gloat took hold, his face splitting in two with a shit-eating grin, “ _Say it_.”

Rutherford gripped his sword tightly, certain his knuckles were turning twelve shades of white from the pressure. Was the display not enough for him?

“You know I'm not subtle, Growler. C'mon, throw me a bone here.”

Cullen sheathed his sword angrily. He set his shield to the side as he turned back to Hawke. Throwing his arms into the air, he let out a cry of irritation, “Fine! You win. Happy?!”

Garrett stepped closer to the man, “Oh, _very_.”

Hawke knew that most of the fight's result had gone to Cullen's exhaustion (he breathed and shook with a ferocity that could only speak to contrary suffering), and not his talent. Had the commander actually lasted longer, the mage was uncertain as to if he would still be claiming the victory.

The crowd hollered and screamed their approval for the victor, Orlesian women (and a few men) waving about their silk scarves. The Adviser shook out his sweaty hair, his staff set to bed on his back.

“Why is it that whenever you're around, there's always a scene?” Varric mused as he approached from his spot on the sidelines, his general amusement evident.

The human male gave a brief chuckle, “I'm kind of a showstopper, apparently.”

“Well, that'll put him in a mood for the next few weeks. Way to go, Hawke.”

Garrett sighed, shrugging his shoulders apathetically, “You think? I doubt you'll be able to tell. That man always has something sour he's munchin' on.”

“Andraste's ass,” Varric breathed between laughter, “I think this deserves a celebration, don't you?”

“I do. But ya know, Varric, I have exceedingly high standards. What with the finely distilled ilk I drank at the Hanged Man, I'm not sure anything will quite compare.”

The dwarf rolled his eyes as he ushered his friend towards the pub, “These drinks might make you constantly fear for your life, but they're not bad.”

–

Cabot watched with careful, hooded eyes as the entourage approached. Their flagrantly loud conversations and ways of being made him internally grown. Great, more Fereldens. His eyes floated across towards Tethras. The writer gave his fellow kin a wave as he climbed the stairs. A burly Ferelden followed his short-legged companion closely. He gave the barkeep a salute before they disappeared upstairs. Not many took to the lounge on the second floor. Perhaps it was best. One look at that human told him that if things got out of hand, he wouldn't want that one involved.

Varric let out a content sigh as he found a table in the corner. It was poorly lit and colder from it's spot close to a hole in the wall. Hawke cocked a brow, giving an audacious point, “Just like Kirkwall. It's feeling more and more like home.”

The dwarf nodded eagerly, “Right?!”

A serving girl approached, her pale blue eyes sizing up the two of them in not-so-subtle approval. It had been a long time since those of such an aesthetically pleasing appearance graced the pub. There were regulars but these two stood out in a crowded room. How thankful she was to have them sit in her section. Perhaps she could earn a lovely tip at the end of the evening. Flipping her long, curly red hair over her shoulders, she leaned downwards onto the tabletop. “Welcome, boys. What can I do fer ya?”

Varric snickered to himself, watching in pure entertainment as Garrett fought back his own round of pleasant flirtation. The Blooming Rose had been accustomed to his visits. One of the male workers, Jethann, had become quite an avid fan of the elder Hawke. The elf had helped Hawke during an investigation once. Hawke had been on rather 'friendly' terms with him ever since. With the proper coin in hand, of course. Needless to say, this sort of situation was not something of a foreign nature. It came like breathing: sarcasm, smiles, fighting, and flirting, tied together with a warm heart. Too many dismissed Garrett as an ignorant beast of a man. Luckily, early on, Varric had learned much different. He was counted as his very best and dearest friend. Such as it would stay the rest of their days.

Garrett leaned lethargically on an elbow, his lips pressing into a sly half-grin, “What's the best you have to offer, miss?”

She thought a moment, lips pursed intentionally, “You can never go wrong with whiskey.”

He glanced at Varric, “Feelin' wild tonight, Varric?”

The dwarf gave a haughty wink, “You don't have to ask me twice. Whiskey it is. What's your name, dear?”

“Telani,” She offered, standing straight once more.

Blond hair shook as he nodded, “Keep 'em comin', Telani.”

–

It was particularly loud this evening. For once, it wasn't the Chargers causing a bulk of the scene. It was coming from the same floor Sera currently found her lodgings. She brought herself from the rooftops in favor of investigating the hullabaloo.

“Whatzit now?” She bellowed, her agile movements quick and undeterred as she approached the center of the commotion.

The table was filled with a few individuals huddled around empty glasses and several bottles of whiskey. One she recognized immediately. Tethras was draped back over his chair, a hand thrown over his eyelids as he laughed so heartily he might invoke a coughing rage. A large example of a human was leaning over the table on wobbly legs across from him, his hands prying at the dwarf's hand in an effort to see his face. The bearded man was laughing to join that of the dwarf, a hiccup eliciting itself from his lungs periodically. Two barmaids had joined them in the festivities. They sat on either side of the two males, their faces red from drink and hilarity as they watched the situation unfold.

Sera took to a pillar. Leaning against it, she watched on quietly. The amusement on her face was evident. Too many of the people littering Skyhold cared far too greatly what others thought to truly let loose. Varric (and his company), however, had 'good-time' written all over themselves.

“Tell the story right, Varric!” The Ferelden slurred, his eyes sparkling with drink and good company.

Varric was brushing away from the onslaught of prying, his chair rocking backwards in an attempt to avoid him, “That is how it happened. There we were--”

“He was bloody naked! I just wasn't expecting to come across such a party in the caves off the Wounded Coast!” Garrett tried, his mouth spread wide in delight.

“The look you gave me, though! Like: 'Can you believe this bullshit?' I'll never forget it.”

Hawke snorted, grabbing a whiskey bottle and chugging at it sloppily. He set it down shakily, his robes working as his napkin.

“And don't get me started on Chateau Haine.”

Garrett's eyes lit as he remembered something through a groggy and altered mind, “How about Gascard DuPuis?” The Ferelden threw his head back in hearty laughter. His entire frame shook under the sheer force of it, “ _DuPuis_. His name was **DuPuis**!”

Varric let out a loud, high pitched wail of a laugh that echoed through the tavern. The two women joined in suit.

Sera sniggered to herself, deciding these were good people. With light footsteps, she approached them. It wasn't long before she too was an integrated part of the festivities.

–

“What iz zat racket?” Skinner hissed, her sharp elven features contorted in discomfort at her usually mild surroundings.

Grim made a grunting noise next to Dalish, his head buried in his folded arms resting upon the tabletop.

“You could just, ya know, go to bed,” Bull offered, his eyes watching that of everyone passing through the tavern. Enemies, even amongst allies, were every where. Best to recognize a particular tell or fault in someone before an attack came and you were left wondering how to retaliate.

Skinner gave a look laced in venom, “Chief.”

Krem took sips of his wine, listening half-heartedly to the rest of the crew complaining. On the contrary, it was nice to hear the place so lively and well-occupied. Too often it was quiet, gloomy, and filled with anxieties over what was to come in the future. “I like it,” He murmured between nursing swallows of his drink.

“You would,” Fenris shot back, his ears lowered as he tried his best to carry on with his own wine. He sat huddled close to the window, his mind in far too many places for him to actually be caught in current surroundings.

Bull shrugged, registering the voice of Varric distinctly. It was choppy and less articulate than usual, but there was no mistaking the mischievous dwarf.

Krem spared him a glance, “You mad you aren't part of it, Chief?”

“What was that, Krem-pie?”

The Tevinter mercenary made a disgruntled expression, his lips pressing against the rim of his wine once more.

With a grunt, Fenris returned to his shoeless feet.

“Where ya goin', Sparkles?” Bull breathed.

“Outside for a bit. It's too loud in here. How anyone thinks with noise like this is beyond me,” Fenris shot back tersely, his agile movements quick and quiet. Within moments, he disappeared from the establishment.

Suddenly, a loud thud echoed through the floorboards. Not long after that, heavy-booted footsteps came toppling down the stairs in an outright fury to escape. The Chargers lifted their heads at the abrupt intrusion. Bull immediately recognized the disorientated man as the Champion of Kirkwall. The mage was completely disheveled, his hair askew as he finally came to a stop at the foot of the stairs. The last few he had been too drunk to navigate and had simply slid down, his boots thudding along the short ride. Apparently he'd been invested in a mild game of pranking with the new addition of Sera. A few of the regular visitors had been unsuspecting victims in the drunken onslaught of tactics. Sera had quickly diverted to her room, slamming the door shut in safe haven. Hawke, however, had needed an escape route. After getting the go-ahead from Varric, the Champion had high-tailed it out of there. Bull delighted in the display as the mage barreled out the door. Mere seconds later, a few men came bounding after him.

“Get him!”

–

The crickets played their song as Fenris came to rest next to the tree adjacent to the requisition's post and the army's blacksmiths. The practice dummies stood limply on their stakes, arms reattached and disoriented from perhaps too much use by a certain cranky Seeker. His green eyes slipped towards the starry night, the light peeking through the leaves in patchy dances of dusky greeting. He breathed deep, thankful for the solace he could find.

That, however, was about to change. Drastically.

Heavy, sloppy footfalls padded through the lush grass of Skyhold. Hot-breathed curses mumbled harshly under winded gasps for air filled his keen hearing. He groggily narrowed his eyes, the glowing glint whispering through the night air as he attempted to find the source of the abrupt change. It seemed, strangely, fate had a different idea. The owner of the messy stumbling had intuitively found the eccentric protection of the small corner of the courtyard to be just as enticing as Fenris had. Boot soles slipped and grasped at the earth, hands bracing at the bark heavily as the visitor attempted to hide themselves amongst the shadow and girth of the tree. Long fingertips buried into the bark as sable hair pressed against the tree. Broad shoulders heaved in effort to smooth the breathing and burn of their lungs. After a moment's rest, the person lifted their honey eyes to glance at the presence they felt bristling at their side.

“ _Oh_ ,” Garrett exhaled, his glassy eyes sobering slightly at the sight.

Fenris realized his company too late. His jaw slackened and his heartbeat elevated as his green eyes stole him into their sights. The Champion of Kirkwall, adviser to the mages of Skyhold. Before the elf could pry himself from the tree and put distance between them, Garrett was on the move to protect his location a bit longer.

“Shh,” He shushed, a partially gloved finger pressed to his own lips in playful warning. He leaned closer to Fenris, “Just let me stay a little longer. Once they've gone, it's all yours. Can't understand what you'd want in a tree, but I don't judge!”

The former slave stood shocked, emerald hues frozen wide as he felt the mage crowd closer. The voices grew upon them, angrily shouting about spoiled liquor and pointy things planted in their chairs. Hawke's lip curled upwards as he fought back the urge to laugh. He slipped closer to the elf in hopes of hiding his rather large form as best he could. His strong arms brushed against Fenris', the fabric of his robe catching upon the spikes of the elf's attire. Hawke glanced down at the sudden friction. Fenris followed suit, his throat too-large and too-dry for him to offer any sort of retaliation at the moment.

“Sorry 'bout that,” The Ferelden apologized through heavy, slurred murmuring. He leaned down, his black hair tickling the side of Fenris' cheeks as he attempted to free his clothing from the shorter male's.

Fenris made no movements. None at all. He simply watched the man with large eyes, his pulse pounding so loudly in his ears he was certain the other male could hear it as well.

“Aha!” Hawke breathed, his robes finally free. “Mages and their robes, right?” He teased, a sloppy smile on his face as he pulled away from Fenris. He glanced around the tree, listening intently for any sounds of the pursuers. When he found nothing but silence and the buzz of night, he pushed himself away from the tree with purpose, “Thanks for sharin'!” He said, “And sorry again.” Unlike the hurricane of an entrance that had brought him to the area, he left in quiet humming and disembodied laughs from time to time.

“What the hell?” The Charger grumbled, tone gruff.

Fenris, however, was found in nothing akin to quiet. In fact, the incessant sound of his insides churned and paraded about in his temples and heart as he tried to steady his breaths. Bowing his head, Fenris' white strands played upon the redness of his cheeks. The blushing, it seemed, didn't depart from his small form for quite a while afterward.

 

 

 


	4. A Book's Cover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after a night of drinking and still, it seems time won't move on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do be easy if there are many typos. I proof read it but it was after writing all of it in one sit down. And not to worry, more interactions on the way. ;)

Chapter 4

A Book's Cover

“ _The book you don't read, won't help.” - Jim Rohn_

****

 

The night lingered longer than it usually did. At least for Fenris. He found himself ogling the stained glass of the Inquisition windows, the bits of starlight painting the floor of his temporary quarters like splashes of water and creations of children. He had long changed from his armor, opting instead to drape his burdened shoulders with a tunic and breeches. The tunic was embroidered in Royal Sea Silk, falling about his lithe form instead of clinging as it did with most other races of Thedas. The breeches clung to his legs and torso in a firmer hold. He could thank too many years on the run and his induction into the Chargers for that. The navy blue cloth seemed odd to him. The whole of it, actually. He was so used to dark colors, metals, dirt, and blood that it seemed strange to see his skin so clear and unmarred.

The elf breathed out a sigh he wasn't aware he'd been holding. His bare palms rubbed over the back of his neck, white hair tangling around his fingertips. The sounds of drunken soldiers and the momentary sucklings and soft sighs of brief love affairs against stone and darkness slowly retreated from the night air. It was not long before all he heard was his own rough breathing and the silent buzzing of the moon and stars as they watched over the land. Much as he tried to settle himself into his bed, his bones desiring rest, his mind rumbled with curiosities. And thus he found himself pacing about his room. He'd busied the rest of his night with another bottle of wine, the last drops of the red liquid glittering at a candle's beckoning.

 _'Sorry 'bout that!_ '

The recollection froze his pliant footsteps, his large green eyes glowing in the night. His lungs squeezed and deterred any breathing patterns he'd established.

_'Mages and their robes, right?' He was fixing their clothing, his hair irritating the skin pulled taunt over Fenris' cheeks._

_' ...Thanks for sharin'. And sorry again_.'

In the next moment, the elf found himself flung loosely into a wooden chair, his arms and legs draped unceremoniously. His black brows were pressed upwards, as if silently asking a question of the room and the lack of occupants found within. Clammy fingertips traveled towards his face, the pads running over his high-cheekbones tentatively.

 _His breathing was ragged. His skin was flushed from drink and running, the beginnings of sweat filming his forehead and nose. He wreaked of whiskey and perfume, the hints of lipstick at the temple of his left side. His lashes had been long, dusting his red cheeks as he attempted to fix their situation. His Ferelden accent had been thick and unabashed in the still of the night, heavy and gruesome upon his sensitive hearing. The black strands of his hair had pirouetted over his skin, teasing and invasive. Crashing upon his nervous system and recognition like waves breaking over a coast, the mage had all but demolished any hopes of distance the poor elf had planned to keep in tact_.

Nails dug into his palms, pressing crescent-moon shapes into his skin with a ferocity he was unaware he was harboring. The memory tore through him like winds on an open plain.

“What is this?” He finally growled, his instincts heightening. How long had it been since he'd been so utterly distraught and disturbed by an event? He'd killed the Fog Warriors, kind people who had come to care for and protect him. The betrayal laced deep within their irises as his hand buried into their chests and freed organs from their bodies. That had been the last time. The fellowship and war-mongering of the Chargers hadn't even incited such a harsh display from him. The only result he could offer his limited understanding of such things was: magic. That drunken heap of a mage had cast a spell.

“Fine,” Fenris swallowed, accepting his patched-through theory. With urgency, he sank under the covers of his bed and squeezed his eyes shut. His nose and brow wrinkled as he tried to force the flitting thoughts and memory from his membrane.

In the morning, when he woke and found the thoughts pressed into him at the break of dawn, he knew (even if he dared not admit it to himself) that this was no spell.

–

“Get your big ass off'a me.”

Groaning like a bear, Garrett stretched his overly bulky form. His spine arched upwards, toes curling as morning set upon his weary bones. His head swam like an unsteady glass of water, the liquids swaying to each side dangerously. His temples felt swollen, much like his eyes. He blinked slowly, the crust of sleep wiped from his eyes in an apathetic movement. The smell of leather, food ripening from lack of proper storage, the remnants of tobacco, musty air from an ancient fortress, and traces of the alcohol on his breath all mingled together for an abominable odor permeating his slowly maturing awareness.

“Hawke, c'mon. I'm a third of your size. I know this isn't the first time, nor the last, but could you please remove your wet dog smellin' ass off'a me.”

Hawke grimaced, sitting upwards. Finally, with great effort, he opened his honeysuckle orbs. The light was leaking through the ceiling and windows, passing unnoticed through the bottom of the closed door. In the corner, Bianca was placed carefully. Stubby legs flailed incessantly under his rear, reminding him (with great clarity) that he was crushing his poor dwarven friend.

Patting Varric's mussied hair, the elder Hawke mounted his feet unsteadily. His hands instantly braced his throbbing head, his mouth slack-jawed as he tried to breathe through the pain.

“Uuuughhhhh, it hurts.”

“I'm right there with ya.”

“Get Anders.”

Varric laughed lightly, the very action causing more discomfort within itself, “We're on our own this time, big guy.”

Stumbling, Garrett made for a chair tucked beneath a small wooden table. It creaked under his heavy plopping. His head lulled backwards as he tried to right himself with the world. “If we had sex, at least make an honest man of me.”

The dwarf laughed again, bracing his forehead against his large forearms. The laughter echoed up through his skin, bouncing off the bed to fill the rafters with the pleasant sound. “I've told you, you're too high maintenance.”

“Tsk, I make one comment about wanting a diamond encrusted headband and suddenly I'm greedy.”

“And no, I'm sorry. No fun of that nature. Humans aren't really my forte, as you remember. Besides, I had been out looking for you and gave up, deciding you'd made it back to your room. Seconds later, my door flies open from a gust of magic – clear off the hinges, I might add-” He muttered, lazily pointing at the limply placed door, “-and suddenly, there's Hawke. You had a flower crown on your head and you demanded I call you 'King of the Dandelions'. We played a few hands of Wicked Grace before you decided to turn me into your breathing mattress.”

“Nice. I give it an eight of ten.”

“Same.”

The two relished in the silence, letting the closeness of their friendship settle into their hearts before the rest of the day began. The Inquisitor had mentioned wanting to venture around Skyhold with a few of Leliana's scouts. He would need to be vaguely accurate when shooting arrows later. He'd have to kick this hangover as quickly as possible. But first, he needed to resuscitate the large human whining in the opposite end of the room.

Pushing himself from the bed with great regret, Tethras meandered towards his silk red tunic. He pulled it over his bare shoulders, his hair poking this way and that, looking like some sort of tumbleweed. Moments slipped past the pair, Varric's blue eyes glassy as he tried to focus in on sobering himself. Finally, he tugged on his boots and tied his hair back from his eyes. Sparing a glance over at his quiet companion, he was greeted with a sight that humored but did not surprise him. The Champion was still spread over the too-small-chair, his neck taunt as it laid over the back of the chair. His mouth was parted in a wide expression, a snore gurgling from his throat. He'd fallen back asleep.

The dwarf gave him a light smack to the stomach. With a cry of surprise and agitation, Garrett bolted upright. He wiped the drool from the corner of his mouth as he tried to steady his vision, “Rude.”

Varric nodded, patting Hawke on the arm, “I know, right?”

“I'm hungry.”

“Let's get some breakfast. That should soak up some of this pain.”

Before the dwarf could hoist Bianca onto his small back, Garrett stepped next to him and pressed his fingertips against Varric's temples. A soothing rush of energy slipped into the pores of his skin. It smelled of magic and tingled against him like such as well. It was cool, fresh like grass during the rain. The thundering curse of too-much alcohol lessened as Hawke removed his fingers, proceeding to enact the same action on his own temples. Varric looked up at him, an ornery expression on his face, “Didn't fix it, ya know.”

Hawke nodded, yawning loudly in the room, “Peace offering for nearly breaking your legs while I slept. It should help a little, at least.”

The broad human reached the disadvantaged door. He set it to the side gently, stepping out of the archway into the light of day. Immediately, he threw the hood of his robes over his head and attempted to shield his sensitive sight from the curse of the sun.

The storyteller followed him thoughtfully, mentally remarking on the caring Hawke attempted to hide through sarcasm and brash actions. Much like he'd watched him do so many times with Carver, he offered steadfast loyalty in quiet, sure demonstrations.

Men like Varric didn't deserve friends like Hawke. How happy and thrilled beyond all his years he was to have such a blessing.

“Varric, carry me!”

The teasing complaint brought him back to reality, his head shaking as he followed his friend, “You have no filter.”

–

Lavellan was finishing his breakfast, the Tevinter mage sitting close to him. The sparkly man was still aggravated from the morning (Dorian, he'd noticed, rather despised mornings). Snickering, the Inquisitor stole a piece of fruit from Pavus' plate. He ate it eagerly, his eyes challenging as Dorian looked at him surreptitiously.

“What is with you Southerners, anyway? Or is this more of a Dalish thing? Eat or be eaten, that ilk?”

The elf rolled his eyes, pushing himself from the table, “Don't be a sore loser.”

Dorian's hand shot out in an instant, his dark skin a bright comparison to the pale of the Dalish Inquisitor's. His grasp was light, but insistent. He peered at Lavellan, his rich, dark eyes shimmering, “Someone's feeling a little too big for his breeches today.”

A flush was beginning to form at the tip of his ears when his eyes caught Varric and Hawke trudging into the dinning hall. Dorian followed his line of vision, letting go of his soft skin with a reserved sigh. Interrupted again.

“Champion. Varric. Good morning,” Lavellan greeted, his voice cheery and a little loud in the large room. It echoed and chased out any peace the pair had found from their predicament. Immediately, they looked put-off. The Dalish hesitated, his eyes wide in surprise at such a grisly reaction.

In the background, he could hear the scoffing delight of Dorian, “Water and sweat works best, gentleman. Drink it down and sweat it out. Disgusting, really. But it's the best remedy I've come across in my many...exploits.”

Varric sighed, “Thanks for that, Sparkler.”

Hawke eyed the contents on the table with hesitation. The smells flickered over his nostrils, throwing his stomach into chaos. Immediately, the color drained from his face and an odd shade of green filled his angles.

Lavellan was quick to notice, his brow cocked as he placed a hand on Hawke's arm, “Champion, we have a meeting in the war room. Might we venture forth now?”

Having been spared the oily breakfast offerings, Hawke nodded eagerly. He trudged ahead of the elf, his hand on his stomach as he tried to steady his discomfort.

Dorian watched Lavellan a moment longer before he turned to his new company, “Stories to share?”

Varric shrugged, tugging a stray piece of bread towards his filling-plate, “You?”

Pavus stared at the table, inwardly chastising himself for being so careful of this elven man, “No.”

Noticing Dorian's apparent annoyance, Varric spoke up,” Have I ever told you of the time Anders mocked Sebastian Vael's specially crafted armor. More importantly, a certain aspect of the creation?”

Thankful of the change in subject, Dorian's brows arched curiously, “Do tell.”

“Let's start off with this: never have a belt buckle of Andraste's head.”

–

“The Winter Palace is a pressing issue, Inquisitor. It is in bad form to continually dismiss the invitation and postponing our reply. If we have received such a calculated admission, we cannot simply ignore it.”

“I'm aware.”

Josephine plastered her political face nicely, her eyes cool as she continued to press the subject, “Appearances are more than necessary. Posturing will be of the utmost importance. The future of Orlais, and possibly Thedas, rides on this particular social engagement. As you have written in your report from the events at Redcliffe, a future of hysteria and chaos are in the makings. This must be the initial incident to invoke such a future.”

“Celene has proven a steady and capable leader of Orlais. However, change is not so terrible an air when it comes to rulers. Especially those so thickly engrossed in The Game,” Leliana added, her hands folded at the small of her back.

Cullen nodded, “I quite agree. Gaspard has rightful claim to the throne. Why not support him?”

“He is a tyrant! Surely you are suggesting this option in jest?” Josephine quipped, her tone alarmed.

The commander shook his head, his serious stare unchanging, “I'm not.”

“His history with the elves is not necessarily a clean one,” Leliana offered, “Nor is Celene's. Why not Briala?”

Lavellan listened eagerly, involvement in such an affair a grand encounter for a Dalish such as himself. He glanced at Hawke. The Champion was standing strong and tall as a door. His shoulders were square, quizzical brow dented with thought as he listened to the others bicker amongst themselves. All traces of his prior exploit were far from him. Such as Lavellan would have guessed. A man of such grand stature and deeds was not to be taken lightly. Much as Garrett liked to tease and shrug things off with a laugh, he was a man of great insight and dedication. Add to that natural talent in brandishing war and he was a truly formidable force.

“Champion?”

Hawke blinked at the mention of his title, his eyes red from lack of a proper sleep, “Inquisitor.”

“And what do you find on this subject?”

The others turned towards him, their eyes expectant and traced with lingering remnants of hostility from their debating.

“Surely I can offer no further insight, Inquisitor. Unfortunately, my realm of understanding in politics begin and end in Kirkwall. And lest we forget the tale many tell their children: don't pull a hawke and start a rebellion.”

Lavellan shook his head, “It matters not. Please.”

Garrett held his chin as he gave it thought, fully aware of the speculative stares of the other advisers as he did so, “Briala.”

“Why, Ser?” Josephine asked, her surprise evident.

“Most controversial?” Hawke asked, sarcasm once again dripping from his teeth to his words.

Cullen snorted, folding his arms, “Of course.”

The mage shrugged, deciding it better to straight-lace this conversation,”The races of Thedas are much discriminated against. Much like the plight of the mages, equality is a basic right to all lives. To constantly live in fear of nobles using their lives in struggles for power is not a life, it's a political gambit. Don't know if you're aware, but that's not really living. Briala will never be accepted as the rightful ruler, but her influence is pivotal.”

The entire chamber stood quiet as he finished, a bored yawn escaping not long afterward.

“That man is an enigma,” Cullen whispered, just loud enough that Josephine heard him with great struggle.

Garrett glanced at all of them, all wound so tight that any sudden movement would send them into a frenzy. He laughed at this, a hand covering his eyes in disbelief, “Or not. Damn, it's just a thought. You asked.”

Lavellan cleared his throat, picking up on the tense atmosphere as well, “For now, inform the Duke that the Inquisition will accompany him to the Winter Palace. In the meantime, let's plan our next move.”

Josephine flipped through her paperwork, her wavy hair framing her face, “Ah, yes. A letter came this morning from the prince of Starkhaven, Sebastian Vael. He asks for our assistance.”

At this, Hawke suddenly sobered.

–

“A little more of a porcupine than usual, eh Sparkles?”

Fenris caught Bull sniggering his direction. The elf cleared his throat, shifting his weight from foot to foot as he waited his turn in the training exercise. The Chargers trained with one another, not the troops. Not that Cullen hadn't offered. It remained simply that the Chargers had a camaraderie and they knew just what ways to challenge one another. The large greatsword on Fenris' shoulders glinted in the sunlight as he moved to a spot of rest once more.

“I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about.”

“You know, you should have stayed last night.”

The elf scoffed, “And why would that be?”

Bull laughed heartily, his good eye glittering in humor as he prepared to tell his tale. His large hands helped with his conversations, eager to relay a message his words possibly could not. “Right after you left, the tavern got a l'il spicy.”

Fenris scoffed, “No thanks.”

“No, not like that. Action, Sparkles. _Action_! The new adviser was all up in some drama.”

Muscles tightened, bones straightened, and breathing hesitated. The mage. He was referencing the Champion of Kirkwall.

 _His sloppy smile illuminated white against his dark beard and red lips, 'Sorry 'bout that_.'

“O-oh?”

The Iron Bull nodded eagerly, his stomach jiggling with his happiness, “Ya know, he had quite a crew mad at him. Pullin' pranks with Sera, I hear. All of a sudden, he comes whippin' down the stairs, missin' half of 'em, dartin' out the door fast as his legs can take him. A few barmaids came downstairs askin' about him, wonderin' where he'd gone. Has admirers, I guess. Anyway, it was funny. Shoulda seen his face, Sparkles.”

Oh, he'd seen his face. A little too closely.

His teeth ground as he revisited the vivid exchange yet again, his pulse whispering quickly.

“Ya alright there?”

Jerking back to his senses, Fenris blinked. When the confusion was evident on his face, Bull continued, “You're all red. Sun gettin' to ya?”

All Fenris could offer was a grumble and a sigh.

–

Later in the day, when meetings and training exercises had concluded, Hawke found himself in the library. As he perused the ancient texts, his fingers traced the bindings. Down in the rotunda, he could faintly hear Solas speaking with an odd younger male. He spoke in riddles from the sound of it. And some sort of obsession with helping. Noble, but weird. A few scouts and mages were found within the darker corners of the library, their faces pressed deep into a book or letter from home. To which it reminded him, it had been some time since he'd heard from Carver. He would write to him again. Anders as well. Merill had written only recently, informing him of the wellness of her clan and the continued exploits of a certain rogue pirate they'd all come to love. On more than one occasion, as he recalled. Their tumbles are been brief and filled of nothing but a need to alleviate stress and the baser needs of human flesh. They remained close friends. Apparently, however, her friendship with Merrill had grown into something quite special. He was happy for them.

Wards. Barriers. The art of Knight-Enchanting. Magical Sins and You: Why the Maker cannot Save You Now.

“Rough.”

Healing. At this title, Hawke slipped the book from it's home on the shelf. Blowing dust from the binding, he sank down in the corner and opened it quietly. He knew Anders would need a bit of a distraction. If this book owned up to it, he would send it to him when he sent his next letter.

–

In an effort to clear his rampaging mind of that irritating mage, Fenris had wandered the main of Skyhold. He hadn't ventured much through the hold since they made the journey from Haven. He often remained close to the Chargers and their normal nesting grounds: the tavern. Due to unforeseen events, however, he found himself in need of a change of scenery. And possibly some form of entertainment. His shoulders ached from his sparring with the mercenaries earlier. A less taxing act would suffice.

The cawing of crows threw this certain area of the castle into turmoil. Many complaints fell not long after. He gazed around as he made the threshold of the stairs. Fires flickered from torches and candles. Musky parchment and dusty surroundings dulled the color and décor. Soft conversations and an occasional chuckle slipped past the unusual quiet. His eyes flit over his surroundings. Instantly, his pupils narrowed at the focal point of the room: books. Clicking his tongue, Fenris hesitated even going into the room further.

He knew nothing of reading. Such had not been permitted with Danarius and the rest of the slaves. But now that he was his own freedom and mind to do so, what was keeping him from trying?

'A proper tutor,' the Charger mused mentally, his steps unnoticed as he approached the many bookshelves. The bindings were of different colors and makes, textures and sizes. Some were not bound in a spine like most of the others. In fact, they were held together by string and leather, often rolled and set atop another book or piece of information. In the back of his recognition, he heard a ground of mages ponder theories and magicks with one another.

Grimacing at the idea, Fenris moved to another portion of the library. It was farther from the jolly bunch of mages. He heard them far less. Instantly satisfied, Fenris continued to study the finery of the books of which he would never be able to read. He gave a wistful sigh, his fingers running along the engraved edging of one of the books in particular. In a fluid motion, he plucked it from the shelf. It was busted, the spine barely in tact. The pages seemed uneven, some even falling free of their binding. The cover was made of nug skin. Notes and a couple drawings were etched into the inside of the book. Understanding nothing of the scribbles, Fenris gave a heavy breath before making to slide it back into its home between two finer books. Much like the busted book, it still fought to remain steadfast through the wear and tear of the world. Much like himself. Perhaps that was what had originally drawn his attention. He meant to move on, however, he found himself gazing upon the broken book in the still of his thoughts.

“You'll put a hole in it, if you keep staring like that.”

Jerking from his momentary reverie, Fenris found himself eye to eye with a pair of honey colored irises.

 _Soft hair tickled his skin. Each breath that fanned over his skin felt like it was burning into his markings. 'Mages and their robes, right_?'

“Pretty sure you have to open it up to read it. Just a thought.”

The elf continued to stare at him icily, contrary to the roaring pounding of his pulse. “No one asked you, mage.”

Hawke blinked stupidly a moment, recovering quickly, “If I had a copper for every time someone's said that to me...”

Fenris bristled. Just what was the big idea. Their first encounter had been trying enough. But the run-in behind the tree, and now this? He could barely stand it. This man was becoming a nuisance. Even in his private thoughts, this mage was occupying all of him.

“C'mon, lighten up,” Garrett mused, his large fingers removing the book of interest from the shelving once more. “Oh, really?” He asked, his expression surprised as he read the title and looked back at Fenris.

Really, what?! What did it say?

The elf stole a glance at the book and its wording once more. Squint as he might, he would never be able to make out the words or meaning.

This elf was entirely too easy to rile. The expressiveness of his emerald green eyes were intriguing. The adviser leaned down, clicking his tongue in a teasing fashion, “People will talk if they catch you with this.”

Hawke chuckled a bit to himself as he handed the obscene book over. This was the man he'd asked to help with a training exercise once. It'd been a while since he'd last seen him. He had all but figured that he had left Skyhold for whatever notion befit him.

Drunken exploits had clogged his memory. Fenris, however, remembered their most recent encounter too well. “I didn't want it,” he tried.

“No need to be embarrassed. We all have our dirty little secrets,” Garrett teased, his own book nestled safely under his arms. He nodded towards Fenris, “It's not bad. Kinda boring in some parts, though. Worth a read.”

Fenris glanced down at the book once more, nearly having forgotten his agitation in with the whole ordeal. It was a good book?

“Can't go judgin' a book by its cover. Good on you,” the Champion continued as he made to slip past Fenris.

The former-slave brought the book to his chest, watching as Hawke began to leave. Surprisingly to Fenris, the man turned around once more, “You're with that Qunari's company, right? The Chargers?”

Fenris gave a curt nod, “And?”

Hawke shrugged, “Nothing. Just curious.”

“Curiosity killed the cat, mage.”

Garrett sniggered, “Satisfaction brought him back. Nothing wrong with askin'. Also, that whole 'mage' thing is getting old. Call me 'Hawke'. Everyone else does.”

When Fenris made no move to continue the conversation, Hawke found himself at a loss to move forward with an attempt to make acquaintance. With a wave of his hand, the Champion moved to leave, “Remember, Spikes, it's about the inside of the book that matters, yeah? Give it a chance. Never know, ya might end up likin' that one.” And with that, he jogged down the staircase.

Moments trickled by and still Fenris stood, his fingers traversing the landscape of the book as he contemplated what had been said. Grumbling, he shoved the book back onto the shelf and stalked off. If that book was anything like that mage, he'd regret ever having set sight on it.

–

Dorian blearily raised his tired eyes from his current literary experience in favor of watching as a white-haired elf crept through the library later that night. He made his way straight towards a shelf in the back. In determination, he grabbed a particular book (almost angrily) before he slipped away to the stairs.

Pavus scratched at his jaw a moment, not quite certain what he'd witnessed. Words inspire, _apparently_.

 


	5. Growing Curiosities

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unexpected team.

“ _There is only one kind of shock worse than the totally unexpected: the expected for which one has refused to prepare.”_    
― Mary Renault,  _The Charioteer_

****

Mothballs and musty parchment filled his nostrils. Nose crinkling, the elf fumbled with the foreign object in the quiet purchased underneath the shade cast from the fateful tree in the courtyard. The practice dummies hung just as loosely to their posts as they had before. They did seem, however, to be missing a few more stitches across the crest of their heads and throats. Someone had been rather disgruntled during a practice session, apparently. Luckily for him, they'd left some time ago and he'd taken up to squatting the particular spread of grass as his own. The moss that caressed the side of the fortress smelled of rain and muck from too many years of weathering storms. The cool call of the stone soothed his warm skin, however. Leaning his shoulder blades square to the wall, he continued on with his struggle.

The sharp edges of his gauntlets decapitated the atoms that held the parchment together, their razor-like armor shredding the edgings. Shavings fell to his feet. His green eyes followed their slow journey to the earth's surface, the lack of any breeze bringing them to the tips of his feet. Curling his toes, Fenris gazed a bit more before returning a glare to the book. With a grunt, he pulled his gauntlet from his right hand. Setting the metal down, he attempted his task again. This time, he felt dry, dry paper. The cut was thick, darker around the edges from hundreds of fingers having turned the pages throughout its life in circulation.

Balancing the tattered book upon his narrow lap, Fenris leaned forward to get a better look at the contents. The black ink formed into perfectly executed shapes, the ink-blots well portioned and spread with purpose across the surface. Squinting, he willed himself to decipher the foreign nature offered so freely before him.

How long he continued to stare holes into the battered works, he wasn't sure. He made plenty of attempts to continue by turning page after page, wishing for some break in his misery. Perhaps the next page would offer some sort of deliverance from his lack of education for literature.

“I did not know someone else was here.”

The harsh accent tickled his awareness. Jerking up from his rounded, hunched position, the elf quickly tucked his long strands of white hair from his eyes so that he could better see his unpredicted company. She stood tall and broad, her face chiseled and smart even from a distance. The loose ends of her attire swam just under the swell of her rear, licking at the back of her thighs as she shifted her weight uneasily from leg to leg. Her arms were kept secretively behind her back.

“I make no claims to this spot aside from the shade. Do as you wish.”

She nodded, her eyes softening in something he concluded as relief. She grabbed the stool off to the side, her strong form huddling down onto the seat eagerly. Immediately, she fell silent. Her eyes trained before her, focused heartily on what she held gingerly in her fingertips.

Clicking his tongue at his curiosity, Fenris leaned just enough to see that she too was invested upon a book.

Feeling his gaze, she looked his direction, “You are certain I am welcome?”

He made no response aside from a quick nod, his eyes falling back down to the jumble of language on the pages.

“I did not know that anyone else came out here to read,” The warrior continued, her short hair fraying in the soft tickle of a breeze.

Read. Or the attempt of it, rather.

“If it is a problem, I shall attempt to find elsewhere.”

Cassandra blinked, shaking her head, “Not at all. I am merely saying it is pleasing to see I am not alone in my endeavor.”

“ _Ah_.”

The silence hung thick upon the air again. Perhaps even more so due to his lack of ability with the literature before him.

The woman had gone back to her fantasy-filled book, her fingers trapped between her teeth as she nibbled out of anxiousness. All that from the words painted inside the covers?

Glancing back down at his own selection, he felt a rush of anger. Another stain upon his being that Danarius had branded him with. In one deft movement, Fenris slammed his book shut and placed it lazily next to hip.

The smack of the covers as they closed jerked Cassandra from her make-believe world. She looked Fenris' direction, her eyes falling to the object he'd discarded moments ago. “Have you read that one before?”

The Charger spared a gaze at the book again before he shook his head quickly, “Never.”

He watched, in intrigue, as her cheeks turned a brief (and perhaps imagined all-together) shade of pink as she continued, “I have read it several times. It is marvelous.”

If he remembered correctly, however, the mage had mentioned it being of a racy content. So this woman was telling him, more or less, that she enjoyed the subject matter? _Interesting_.

“Do you read often?”

Strong shoulders shrugged, his hand slipping back inside his removed gauntlet, “No, not in particular.”

“I see,” The Seeker breathed, her dark eyes returning back to her book. “It is probably for the best,” she tried, hesitation evident in her throat, “it is a frivolous past time.”

His eagerness to learn and explore the world she so easily took and abandoned up spoke against her statement. “Many do not have the opportunity, or means, to take advantage of such a luxury. Perhaps it is not as frivolous a notion as you dismiss it as.”

Cassandra placed her dried flower bookmark back into the pages, closing her book to match that of his own. “We are at war. There is much to be done. One should not shirk their responsibilities so quickly. Especially in favor of a hobby that is of no consequence towards the whole.”

Fenris snorted, “And yet, here you are.”

The former Left-hand shifted uneasily on her stool, her eyes falling to the cover of the book clasped hungrily inside her fingertips, “Indeed.”

“If you feel so strongly as to admonish yourself so openly yet still contradict your words, I cannot help but wonder as to what story you could possibly be invested in.”

And for a second time (or so he could have sworn) he found her cheeks flushing. “It is one of Varric Tethras' tales.”

That dwarf he found in the tavern from time to time? He was uncertain about that fellow. He was often watching more than he was drinking. People like that were often more trouble than their worth.

“I see.”

Unaware of his lack of awareness as to the world of fantasies and tales, she continued on quickly, “Do not make assumptions. It is not the serial for which he is so greatly revered.”

Fenris tilted his head, listening half-heartedly, “Yes, of course. Then what is the name of the tale you hold in your hands now?”

The pads of her gloved fingers ran over the surface of the book, her eyes far away, “The Tale of the Champion.” With unabashed vigor, she turned in her seat to face him fully. Her eyes swam in delight and excitement as she continued, “It's about the Champion of Kirkwall.”

Familiarity of the subject sent a rush of nerves to life, the elf lifting his eyes to hers a little too quickly, “The Champion of...Kirkwall?”

Cassandra nodded gravely, “I have heard it from his own mouth before, but I could not resist reading it. It's just so...” But soon she stopped, realizing she was rambling on out of sheer inspiration. “Forgive me. I have taken up too much of your time as it is.”

Lithe legs stood, footsteps silent as he approached her, “No. Do go on.”

–

“Tell me what the situation is!” The Inquisitor breathed, trying his best to catch his breath as he darted down the stairs from the library. Scout Harding had come shouting for him, her face contorted in excitement and concern.

“There's a lot of shouting. Considering the affiliated party, I thought it wise to call for you, Inquisitor.”

Lavellan doubled his efforts, his slender form quick as he took to the stairs leading down into the courtyard. He could see from the overlook a group of Orlesians, a few pilgrims, and a handful of soldiers and mages drawing close to the doorway of the tavern. Just what the hell was going on?

“Make way for the Inquisitior!” Harding shouted, her small form producing a bellow so grand that even the Dalish took pause.

He glanced down at her, smiling widely before he pressed through the slowly parting mass.

She trailed behind him, making sure to keep her bow firm in her grip (should the occasion arise).

Cabot stood close to the door, sighing loudly at the appearance of the Inquisitior, “Wonderful.”

“Happy to see you as well, Cabot. Is there a prob-” Before Lavellan could finish his question, he heard the bellow of Iron Bull reverberate through the entire tavern. It was so powerful and awe-inspiring that the words were intangible.

“Bull?!”

Darting to the corner where he found his usual companion, Lavellan's keen hearing picked up the apparent complaints loud and clear.

“Are you shittin' me?!”

The Dalish elf came to a halt when his eyes fell upon the counterpart of the conversation. Iron Bull was leaning over a table, his good eye sparkling in excitement as he slammed his fist, shaking his head, “I shit you not!”

The other person smacked their flat palm upon the table as well, their own thrill evident as they let out a yell of surprise.

Garrett Hawke.

The adviser was barely sitting on the edge of his seat as he joined in the conversation. His eyes were near the size of saucers, his face red in mirth and the thrill of the event, “The way the heat practically melts your face off!!!”

Bull sat straighter, eagerness plain upon his scarred face, “The way they gurgle!”

Hawke squirmed in his chair, the thrill of remembering and the need of encountering such an event again thick in his blood, “The glint of light against their eyes before they make a snap for your neck!”

The Qunari threw his head back, laughing heartily, “Finally, someone understands!”

“Understands? I have a need!”

“A need?” The Charger captain questioned, his face split in half with a wide grin.

“To be a dragon!”

Bull smacked his hand to his own face, letting his large palm slide down slowly as he nodded, “An ataashi? To think, I would find such a notion amongst the Bas Saarebas .”

Garrett smirked, “You know, I met a dragon-woman once...well...she turned into one...she...I still don't quite understand.”

“Sounds like my kind of woman!” Iron Bull hollered, his large hands fumbling with a candied nut.

Hawke shuddered, shaking his head, “You'd think...but think again!”

Lavellan turned towards Cabot, clearly bewildered, “It's...they're...bonding. Not fighting.”

Cabot shrugged, “Two big bruisers shouting, I couldn't be caught in the middle of that mess.”

Sighing, the Inquisitor approached the jolly companions with a smile back in place, “I couldn't help overhearing.”

“Inquisitor!” Garrett greeted, patting the seat next to him, “Take a load off.”

“I like this one, Boss. Can we keep him?”

The elf snorted, plopping into the offered seat with a roll of his eyes, “So, about this dragon topic...”

–

“And then--” Cassandra dropped short when Iron Bull meandered their direction, his face positively beaming.

“Seeker. Hey, Sparkles.”

“ _Shanedan_ , Bull.”

Iron Bull made no comment on the use of the Qunlat greeting, but he took notice. The elf was not overly familiar with many, but he often made attempts to find common ground through the Qunari's native tongue.

“You two trying to sneak off together?”

Both of the warriors instantly scowled, their expressions so utterly dark that Bull immediately regretted having started the exchange in such a way. “A-anyway, we have an assignment from the Inquisitor.”

Fenris stood, making to leave. Instead, Bull held out his hand, “Hang on, pal. This involves the Chargers as well.”

“How is it that the Chargers are expected to undertake an assignment directly from the Inquisitior when he has his own party for such intricate matters?”

“They are deployed elsewhere, momentarily. And due to the possible 'enormity' of this excursion, the more hands, the better.”

The elf frowned, “Well then, what is it?”

Just as Bull took a breath to explain, Cassandra's face drained of any and all color. Her body tensed and her eyes narrowed. The two males took notice, following her line of vision.

“It's the C-Champion!” She breathed, her tone tight and controlled (with great effort). Her arms immediately encircled the book she had been holding limply at her side.

Bull and Fenris turned to see the Mage Adviser lethargically heading back towards the main hall of Skyhold alongside the Inquisitor. The Ferelden towered over the short elf, his bulky form a stark contrast to that of Lavellan. The two were deep in conversation, Hawke apparently thrilled with the proceedings of it all.

Fenris' toes curled into the earth, his green eyes following every movement entirely too closely, his blooming curiosity causing great disturbance amongst his better judgment. His fingers dug into the cover of the book the mage had recommended only a few days prior. After having sat through a few stories from Varric's 'Tale of the Champion' with Cassandra, the sudden appearance of Hawke left him heavy in quiet.

The Qunari mercenary captain jerked his thumb at the two of the exiting men, his face amused, “Actually, the assignment involves those two!”

–

Varric and Hawke took the rear of the entourage, their lively conversations wafting through the air. Bull offered his own excited overtones from time to time, his mood infectious amongst the other two men. Cassandra walked just ahead of Fenris. She spoke little. Fenris noticed, however, she would sneak peeks at the Champion from time to time. And leading the front was the Inquisitor and a warden.

Just why he had been the only Charger, aside from their captain, to join the expedition, Fenris was still unclear. Bull had given him a brief explanation, mentioning that the rest of the Chargers were needed to help find a defect sister from the Chantry. But still, he accompanied them.

“What exactly is this assignment?” Fenris finally asked Iron Bull, his eyes challenging.

Bull turned to him, his expressions jovial, “Apparently there's been a bunch of complainin' 'bout a dragon 'round here. It's hold up in a valley. No travelers may pass without meeting the supposed 'maker'. So the Inquisitor has volunteered the efforts of the Inquisition to deal with this situation.”

Fenris continued to glare at Bull, the anger cold upon his irises.

The Qunari sniggered, “There's only one mage here, Sparkles. Calm yourself.”

The continued close proximity with the 'particular' mage that caused Fenris discomfort was driving him mad. He could sense his presence at the rear of the entourage, his bubbling laughter dancing with the dwarf's as they bantered back and forth with one another. This particular tale they shared amongst themselves had to do with some saucy pirate and some peculiar obsession with boats.

In the midst of his mental tirade, he was brought back to the present when a harsh voice spoke, “Have you read more of the book?”

The former slave blinked, looking at the Seeker as she made to walk next to him.

“I'm afraid I have not.”

“That is unfortuna-”

“Waiiiit!”

A warm voice cut through. Fenris felt his shoulders tighten at the recognition. Hawke. “So wait, you decided to read it?” Garrett laughed, whistling, “Naughty!”

Fenris jerked around, his temper escalating entirely too-fast. “Listen here, mage--”

The verbal assault was brought to a grinding halt when the loud echo of a high-pitched, spirit-crushing roar of a dragon broke forth through the cavern leading towards the valley. At this, the Inquisitor turned towards them, “Just up ahead.”

“Bossssssssss, you're the greatest!” Bull exclaimed, his large hands reaching for the glittering battle axe on his shoulders.

Fenris followed suit, freeing the greatsword from his back, his blade glinting in the sunlight.

The cocking of Bianca followed, along with Cassandra and Blackwall slamming the hilt of their swords into their shields to indicate readiness. The mages silently freed their weapons as well, the magical stones glimmering with a rush of mana from the palms of their wielders.

“Varric.”

“Yes, Hawke?”

“This is goin' in the next book.”

The storyteller snorted, nodding at his enthusiasm, “Got it!”

–

The fight was much more than originally anticipated. Varric had taken spot on an overlook, his attacks endless and precise with each swing or firing of his weapon. The Inquisitor was quick and ruthless, blades slashing and hashing at the dragon (and disappearing again before the raging enemy could find him). The four warriors were hot at the heels of the dragon, only deterred when the dragonlings sought to regroup the efforts of the elder dragon.

Hawke stood just out of range of the dragon's bite, his Champion armor stained with blood and grime from the continued encounter.

“I'm injured!” Cassandra called out, her shield pulling up to block her head just in time. The Dragon spun on it's heels, tail smashing with an unrivaled anger against the shields and armors of those fighting. The sheer velocity of the had left Fenris unsteady on his feet.

Bull was shouting at him. The screech of the dragon was the only sound filling his large, pointed ears. His hands slipped on the hilt of his weapon, sweat making his palms slick, even though his gauntlets.

“Sparkles!”

Fenris righted his stance and the hold on his blade in time to see a large claw descending upon him. It was a storm; quick, and ravenous. The talons gave off a sickening glint as they narrowed towards his unprotected head. His stomach flipped, sloshing about in his torso like a boat on choppy waters.

“Oi! Guard up!”

In the next moment, he found the large Ferelden barreling towards him. The wicked spark of his staff was growing in the elf's eyesight. With expert motions, like water over stones in a river, Hawke cast a spell.

 _'Kill them, Fenris. Remember to whom you belong._ '

_Trusting eyes grew lifeless as his hands plunged through their chests. They'd helped him. They'd supported him and given him a new way. And yet he still obeyed the magister._

_'Very good, my little Fenris_.'

Magic. A corruption more pure he'd never seen. The mana would run over him like thousands of needles, pricking at his skin. His jaw clenched and the lyrium markings buzzed at the sudden rush of magic. But as he prepared himself for the unbearable pain, he found an invigorating jolt of fresh air and energy. Wind and warmth surrounded his battle-worn limbs, holding him steady on his feet. As if hands held him upright, the attack of the dragon fell upon a barrier so strong and rigid that the elf was completely unscathed.

Putting distance between himself and the sporadic flailing of the dragon's many limbs made into weapons, Fenris caught sight of a blue shimmer traversing over his arms and body like spider webs.

Green eyes locked with warm, copper ones.

“Look at that, the damn mage was just in time!” Hawke teased, his smile brief as he turned his spells back towards the looming reptile.

Fenris followed suit, his sword slicing against the iron scales with a vehemency that had been lost with the length of the battle.

Unlike most other mages, this one stayed at the front of the lines. He danced and cast his spells, the thrill of the fight plastered upon him like a child receiving a rare trinket. He cried out snarky comments from time to time, Bull responding in his own grunts of laughter. And after what was a long, trying event, the dragon fell with a bellow and whine of air leaving its lungs.

The dust flew about them all, causing Blackwall to hack and wave about in desperation for fresh air. Cassandra leaned against the hilt of her weapon, much like the Inquisitor did his staff. Varric hoisted Bianca back onto his shoulders, making his way quickly to his friend on the battlefield. Iron Bull was busy walking about the fallen Glorious One, his face drawn in consideration and awe.

Fenris put away his sword, re-tying his hair from his eyes as the Inquisitor made to approach the fallen beast.

“That was fun, yeah?”

Hawke had come to stand next to Fenris, his arms crossed just under the large metal plate of his armor. He studied the dragon with fervent eyes. The paint on the bridge of his nose was smeared from sweat, dripping down to his cheeks.

The elf cleared his throat, attempting to think of a response. Instead, he voiced his complaint. “I never asked for help, mage.”

“Hawke.”

Fenris stared hard at the man, teeth grit in determination. Familiarity with a mage was not a punishment he would suffer through. No matter how curious the human made him.

The Champion glanced down at him, his eyes sweeping over Fenris in an unreadable expression, “It's called teamwork. Surely you've heard of it?”

“Do not patronize me. I am not so ignorant.”

“I never once said you was,” Garrett offered, his voice amused. This one was interesting. “Remember, not all spells are dangerous. Some magic heals. And the better magic protects.”

Fenris hesitated, his stance and demeanor challenging, but thoughtful, “Is that so? Perhaps more mages should take lessons from you then, ma--”

“Hawke.”

The elf clenched his jaw, fingers fidgeting at his sides, “... _Hawke_.” The name felt heavy on his throat. The taste, however, spread through his tongue like wine.

Garrett smiled warmly, “Better.” And with that, he turned to Varric and the two went off about their usual business.

The elven warrior, however, found himself watching the man long after the conversation had ended.

 


	6. Campfire Conversations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feeling spent after a victory against a High Dragon, the Inquisitor and party find rest at a camp nearby.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To everyone leaving comments and kudos, thank you so much. I am absolutely thrilled with how well this fic is being received. You are all truly valued and adored in every way. This fic was originally inspired --and dedicated-- to a mate of mine, G. (Dyr0z.tumblr.com). This lovely person has created a fan art based on the events of this fiction. It centers around Fenris and is absolutely beautiful. It can be found here as well: http://dyr0z.tumblr.com/image/118667196857 . Please give the art and G lots of love, okay?

“ _Sometimes the heart sees what is invisible to the eye.”_ \- H. Jackson Brown, Jr.

****

After the heat of their battle had settled into the dust with dried blood and sweat, the company made for the Dusklight camp held by Inquisition soldiers. The usual banter was silent as they trudged along. Even the typical light conversations between Hawke and Varric had grown few and far between. The fight had taken more of a toll on the members than they all cared to divulge at the moment. The heavy thuds of footfalls and rattling of weapons and shields was the only contribution the warriors gave to camaraderie.

Upon their arrival, Inquisition scouts saluted the Inquisitor, beckoning with a warm welcome and quick affirmation of any and all efforts within the Hinterlands. After the hasty briefing, the company wearily huddled near several tents prepped for them ahead of time with word from Leliana.

“We'll rest here for the night,” Lavellan murmured, his usual brightness caught on the edge of fatigue and worry. The bright green glow from his left hand buzzed and flickered in warning before falling back to a faint hint of awareness. Giving his hand a quick shake, the Dalish elf began to disarm.

Bull and Fenris opted to take to a tent together that night, placing their weapons just on the inside of their tent flap. The elf shot a glare at Bull, his expression stretched thin over his angular cheeks, “I was under the impression we would head straight back.”

The qunari snorted, “What kind of race are you runnin', Sparkles? It'll take at least another few days to reach Skyhold, even if we don't stop.” Bull grew quiet before adding, more for a reminder than a quip, “There's not always something to run from.”

Fenris hesitated before he relaxed, however briefly.

“It's a rather large camp. Why is it such a big deal, anyway?” Bull continued on, his curious eye searing into the small warrior with a knowing glint that made Fenris' stomach roll.

“ _Fasta vass_!”

Iron Bull sniggered, elbowing him playfully, “I'm not saying one way or another but being honest with yourself is the first step.”

“What even are you--”

“Don't be coy, Sparkles. _Ben Hassareth_ , remember?”

“How could I forget? You remind everyone constantly.”

The Charger captain nodded in apparent self-pride, “That's right. Don't forget it. Which means I can see what a normal person can't.”

“Even without the eye...”

“If anything, I'm more honed. The other senses kick in a li'l more when another has been distorted.”

“Mind your own business, _Chief_.”

Bull shrugged lazily, unbuckling bits of his armor to make for a more comfortable rest, “As I said, honesty with ourselves is the hardest thing to accomplish. But it's necessary to move forward.”

–

“You are alright, Inquisitor?” Cassandra asked briefly, watching him closely as he stoked the fire nonchalantly.

Lavellan raised his eyes to her, his lips pressed tightly together. He gave her a curt nod, the braid at the side of his hair bouncing against his shoulder.

She took this quick dismissal as her hint. Slipping past them, she went to speak with the scouts and share in a few bites to eat.

Blackwall had gone to staring over the ridge in quiet speculation, his usual aloofness present even in his weary state.

The Inquisitor's eyes flicked across the fire to find Varric and Hawke sitting on a log together. The dwarf was animatedly speaking with Hawke, his eyes on the Ferelden's ministrations. Lavellan couldn't quite make out what the adviser was doing, but it seemed rather intense. His brows were knit together in concentration and jaw clenched as he bit back a wave of pain.

“When are you going to learn to let the warriors with big swords and shields take most of the blows during a fight, Hawke?” Varric teased.

Garrett continued to wrap his hand in cloth bandages. Hissing under his breath, he ripped the fabric and tied it together with a sigh of relief, “It's not like me to sit the action out, you know that. Besides, the blade end isn't just a decoration. It's meant to be used. And we all catch ourselves in the crossfire from time to time, right?”

“At least slow down with that staff, would ya? That one time you got Sebastian's forearm with that staff blade. And now you look like the Inquisitior's twin thanks to that thing.”

Hawke snorted, “Twin.”

The mention of twins left an empty feeling in the recesses of the Champion's chest. Varric knew his mistake as soon as he'd made it. He watched the bit of quirkiness fade from his friend's copper eyes quickly. Hawke rarely spoke of himself, or for himself. His burdens were often shouldered in quiet acceptance, along with everyone else's tasks they so eagerly placed upon his spine. Unlike the rumors and derogatory remarks many of the faithful left in his wake, Hawke had a good spirit and warm heart. He often was eager to assist anyone, even those of the enemy's ranks. He gave everything he had to everyone else and left nothing for himself. It often worried Varric. Such was the nature of his current predicament. The former-noble was left to the efforts of the Inquisition and far from Kirkwall, all because he planned to spare the city of chains from an Exalted March that never came.

His heavy silence loomed overhead like rain in an all-too-heavy cloud. Testing the bandage, Garrett wriggled his fingers and squeezed his hand into a strong fist. His head was bowed as he watched his body move, the embers from the fire popping from time to time in the background.

“Haw--”

“I'm hungry again,” Garrett said, the familiar smile back in place as he turned to Varric.

The dwarf hesitated, studying his friend a long while before accepting the change of subject. He knew when Hawke was wanting to ignore something. This was no exception.

“I think they have a bit to eat. Let's go check it out,” Tethras offered, a soft groan echoing from his chest as he stiffly mounted his feet.

–

The Inquisitor spoke to Hawke alone inside his tent for a long while after everyone had their share of food and drink. Inside was a desk and a make-shift war table. It was littered with letters and requisition orders requested from Skyhold. Lavellan sat at the desk, his small form leaning against the wood for support. He waited quietly as Hawke turned his 'rift-sealing' palm over and over inside his overly-large hands, “Does it happen often?”

Lavellan shook his head, “At first, it was unbearable. The apostate Solas monitored the progression, or regression, of this mark closely for the first few months of my involvement with the Inquisition. It typically only hurts now when a rift is being sealed. Tonight, however...”

Hawke ran his thumb over the mark, his face both intrigued and concerned. He knew the burden of power. For all its grandeur, it often drove those wearing its crown to the brink of their self-control. The rush of magic expelling from the fade connection was of an intense rush that surprised the elder Hawke. Albeit, briefly. The surge of mana through his veins, just at the mere touch, left Garrett's blood ripe with magic.

“I'm not exactly the most scholarly when it comes to magic, Inquisitor. I know enough of battle and strategy to save my ass, but aside from that, the in depth dissecting of something of this nature is not of my talent. Perhaps, though, it came from fighting the High Dragon. She was filled to the brim with magic and raw power. Might-a just sent that thing into a tizzy.”

The Inquisitor nodded, “It seems to be a mystery to any and all that encounter it. I thought perhaps in your travels that you had stumbled upon something similar.”

“Similar to a big rip in the sky and a sea of hangry demons? No.”

“Hangry?”

Garrett laughed lightly, “Hungry and angry demons. They're a bit cranky.”

Lavellan snorted, his general lightness returning a bit with a change of subject.

“My suggestion would be to use that thing as little as possible. Magic is a gift. But lacking general knowledge of the subject is never a wise course of action. That's how this whole mess started, no?”

The Dalish sighed, “Accurate.”

Hawke gave a quick bow of his head as he made to leave the tent. Lavellan spoke up before he was successful, however.

“The Winter Palace.”

Groaning loudly, the Champion turned toward the Inquisitor again, “Don't make me!”

“All of the heads of the Inquisition are asked to be present. You are not excluded from this. You are the Mage Adviser, after all.”

“I can't dance.”

“Not an excuse.”

“I have no manners.”

“Champion--”

Garrett sighed loudly, clearly hating the general idea of it all, “If I must, Inquisitor.”

Lavellan gave a curt nod, smiling a bit at the distressed adviser, “Duke Gaspard intends to shock those in attendance by arriving to the ball with me in tow. Imagine the absolute dismay of all in attendance when the mage activist Champion of Kirkwall attends the whole display as well? And not just as a guest, but as an adviser to the Inquisition?”

“Scandalous,” Hawke offered, his expression light but still hesitant.

“When we return to Skyhold, Josephine has asked that you see a tailor so that your measurements may be taken. We are to wear formal Inquisition attire.”

“I'm getting a wedgie just thinkin' about this.”

The Dalish motioned towards the vallaslin on his face, “Trust me when I say, you will not be the only beast running amok in the halls of the Winter Palace.”

–

“I'm not playing this again!”

“C'mon, loser buys the entire tavern drinks when we get back to Skyhold.”

Varric frowned, “I know we made a killing in that Deep roads expedition – along with all our other exploits, but I'm not so eager to spill my coin.”

“I never took you for the quitting type, Varric.”

Tethras laughed, eyes narrowing, “Hawke, I know you think you can tease me into this--”

“Is it working?”

“ _Completely_. Okay, on the count of three.”

Fenris watched through hooded eyes at the entire display. The two sat caddy-corner to his current seat. Bull sat next to him, talking loudly with Blackwall and Cassandra. The Inquisitor had opted to sleep early that night. His mark had zapped all traces of energy he had left.

The elf was content to watch with a scowl when a large elbow prodded his ribcage, “If you want to join, why don't you?”

The Charger glanced up at his captain and snorted, “I have better things to do.”

“And yet you've been watching the whole time. Do you want to play with me, then?”

“Shove off, Bull.”

Iron Bull snickered loudly, his nose wrinkled in delight, “Easy there, Sparkles.”

“Sword beats parchment, I win!”

Varric huffed, “How'd you know what I was going to pick?”

“You're a writer. What writer doesn't pick parchment? That's not the issue here. When we get back, you're buyin' rounds!” Hawke jumped to his feet, shaking his hips and pointing with both index fingers in a not-so humble victory celebration, “Winner, winner, I'm a sinner!”

“Andraste's holy ass, Hawke, you're not graceful at winning.”

“Nope.”

The dwarf chuckled a bit, rubbing his forehead as he tried to hide his amusement. If Hawke caught sight of him enjoying the whole exchange, there'd be no stopping his current rush of energy.

With a look of recognition, Garrett jerked around to face Bull and Fenris, “Oi, you two! You Chargers are always in the tavern...what would you prefer to drink when we return? The charitable Varric Tethras is rewarding all the inhabitants to a drink. No price is too high!”

“Hawke!”

Ignoring his friend with a bright smile, Garrett waited eagerly for any response from the two. “Well?” He asked, honey-colored eyes locking with Fenris'. “You have anything you like in particular?”

Fenris stared at the burly mage a long while, his green eyes flicking over the features of the man. The fire's shadows licked at each rise and fall of the Champion's face, his eyes bright against the dark. His lips parted into a sly smile, his nose wrinkling at the lack of response from the elven warrior. “Helloooo?”

Bull cleared his throat, “ _Maraas-Lok_ for me.”

“Sounds painful. I like it.”

With a bit of time to steady his thoughts, Fenris spoke up, “Wine.”

Garrett cocked a brow, clearly surprised by such an answer from a mercenary of his talents, “Wine?”

“Is that a problem?” Fenris hissed, his rising discomfort causing his tone to be terse.

“No problem,” The mage offered, his large form lazily plopping down next to the elf.

Fenris was vaguely aware of Bull breathing out a soft ' _oh-ho!_ ' before moving from his spot. He gave the Charger a pat on the shoulder, his tone amused. The warrior didn't need to look at the man to know what sort of expression he wore, “I'm hittin' the sack. Don't have too much fun without me, everyone.” And with that, the large mass of a man was concealed behind drawn snoufleur skin tent flaps.

“ _Kaffas_.”

Garrett stretched his long, muscular legs. A loud yawn slipped past his lungs, filling the stagnant air fully.

“I say your name once and suddenly you feel the need to invade my personal space?”

Hawke blinked slowly, his fingertips rubbing at his beard in an off-handed gesture, “I didn't know me sittin' next to you was this big ordeal.”

Varric snorted from his seat, his face red as he attempted to keep from laughing while he tinkered with Bianca.

“It's not,” Shot back the elf, his green eyes returning to their place watching the campfire. The rumblings of emotions darting back and forth between recognition left Fenris more confused than pleased. It had been some time since he had been so preoccupied with another person. And a mage, no less. He'd all but avoided mages prior to his induction into the Chargers and their arrival at Skyhold. His previous life held more than enough rough brushes with magic and evil men to last him this lifetime and any that followed. With such a heart, it was unclear as to why his current predicament was so frustrating. At the root of it all, it was simple: he should be keeping this mage –a glorified one, at that, far away. And yet, here he sat, shoulder to shoulder with the large human. This one, even Fenris could admit, was different than those of his previous encounters. He used magic at a bare minimum, and when it was consulted, it was brandished with precision and motives to protect others. Their brush with the dragon had proven as much. And unlike the magisters of Tevinter, this mage fought with the non-magic users down in the brunt of battle. With a personality like this one, and looks to boot, it was hard to simply ignore the man.

“So, why wine?” Garrett tried again, his injured hand flexing as he reached for a twig on the ground. He used the tip to animate obscure drawings into the dirt as he waited for an answer.

Fenris contemplated a harsh reply before sighing at himself and conceding to the effort of the man, “It is a luxury I was not of the rank to enjoy until recently.”

“Oh?”

The elven male gave a strained grunt, glaring at the memories he found dancing in the flames of the fire.

“ _Pour until I say otherwise, my little Fenris.”_

_The acid-tone sent chills of resentment down his spine. The red wine spiraled into the crystal glass, shimmering like the blood the magister spilled in the name of his rituals and magical practices. With his body rigid and his heart filled to the brim with unabashed hate, the slave did as his master commanded._

“ _Wonderful. Such a good lad._ ”

Noticing the discomfort of the man, Garrett decided it better to change the subject, “Either way, no problem with likin' wine. I much prefer to drink--”

“Whiskey.”

Both Varric and Hawke raised their heads to gaze, curiously, at Fenris. His tone had been quiet, almost embarrassed, as he answered for the elder Hawke.

“I'm that obvious, huh? Not real original, I s'pose,” The Champion teased, totally ignoring all possibilities of the elf having known for some other reason. The night behind the tree still escaped the man's memory. Unlike that of the smaller elf, who could think of little else.

Varric watched a while longer, careful to keep his study to himself and away from the suspicious green eyes of the Charger.

Fenris flicked his long hair from his shoulders, leaning his elbows onto his knees as he attempted to stare at anything other than the man next to him.

“Guess it's kinda predictable. All Fereldens are the same. Whiskey and mabari. That's all it takes.”

“Mabari, eh? ...Are you aware that the revered breed of dog is actually of Tevinter origin?”

Garrett tilted his head, his expression and thoughts unreadable as he gazed at Fenris. “That so?”

Fenris nodded quickly, stealing a peek at Hawke, “They were bred by the magisters. It is said that during the invasion of Ferelden by the Imperium, that the war-dogs defected. Perhaps they found the rugged barbarians of Ferelden amiable to that of the twisted mages of Tevinter.”

Blatantly ignoring the barbarians aspect of his explanation, Hawke spoke, “You know an awful lot about Tevinter.”

“It is no secret I carry. I was raised there. I have no prior memories to my days spent in the Imperium.”

As he suspected. The elf was not of nobility, especially from the Imperium. To that blunt fact, he knew of the man's time spent within the dark hold of Tevinter. As a slave. A sympathetic rush coursed through his emotions as he sat in the afterglow of such a conversation. He knew a barred subject when he heard one. Typically, he went head-first into such things. Such adversity and harsh living conditions (and general lack of freedoms) was a subject he had become too familiar with during his time spent in Kirkwall. The notion that someone so clearly talented and intelligent had been subjected to such a life, much like the plight of the mages, save for Tevinter. It was utterly disgusting. From the looks of it, the thought of it all was still very much painful to the Charger. In an effort to spare him of his memories, Hawke spoke once more, “I had a mabari. Magnificent animal. I unfortunately had to part with him when I made my visit to Skyhold.”

Fenris, thankful for the seemingly thoughtful breach of the obvious subject, gave Garrett a slight chuckle, “Of course. What Ferelden is complete without a dog to call their own?”

Hawke grinned at this warm reception, his eyes twinkling, “Exactly! It's like a collector's set. I can't go lettin' people think that stereotype ain't true.”

“Perish the thought,” the white-haired elf offered, his voice light and husky in the moonlight. The soft glow of his irises caught from time to time when the fire could not reach his eyes. It was then, when Hawke made to steal a glance at Varric, that he noticed that all had retired to their bedrolls except for himself and Fenris.

Seeming to pick up on the discovery simultaneously, Fenris cleared his throat. Once more, he felt the overwhelming rush of the mage's nearness. He smelled of pine and the hints of blood. Had he been injured? Another scent, distinct to this man in particular, filled Fenris' nostrils. His lungs huffed it deep into their chambers, committing the aroma to memory.

“'Bout time we had a normal conversation, no?”

White hair fell over Fenris' eyes as he looked at Hawke, the mage's expression warm and why- in the name of the Maker- was he so happy about something like this? Feeling his heartbeat hike yet again on account of this Ferelden, the warrior found himself openly staring.

“I suppose,” He tried.

“I was startin' to think you had a thing against me,” Hawke teased, knowing full-well that had been the case.

From the licking glow of the dying flames-- or something else, Garrett could have sworn he could picture the hints of red painting the tips of the elf's dark cheeks. It was then that Hawke truly noticed the intricate brands on the elf. The markings on his face began just under the swell of his lower lip, traversing down his smooth skin down towards his taunt throat, extending further still past his clothing. Just who was this man? This was unlike the vallaslin that he had come to understand firsthand during his time spent with Merrill and the others. It was different; peculiar. And if he was not mistaken, the faint hint of lyrium pressed through his dark skin. The magic in Hawke's blood reacted to it ever-so-slightly. This did not appear to be the same ink they branded themselves with. And further yet, the marking ceased just as it reached the center of his face. Most Dalish tattoos covered the entirety of the face, making certain to pay homage to their gods. Was this a rite of Tevinter?

Emerald eyes glittered at him through wisps of fine hair. He sat with his back curved, jawline tight as he made to answer the adviser.

“...You...are the Champion of Kirkwall, is that right?”

Pleased to see that the elf was attempting to keep the good nature flowing, Garrett eased once more. He leaned his elbows onto his thighs, resting his chin in his hands as he chuckled, “I've been called that, yes.”

Fenris opened his mouth to speak, his curiosity pulling him deeper into their exchange. Such lengths of time, and exposure to this man in particular, he had not dared consider prior to this short trip. “Is it also true that you--”

“ _Messere_ Hawke!”

The two men jerked from their brief reverie, their heads turning towards the interjecting voice. It was an Inquisition scout, his face drawn with sweat and the stench of blood. He had been on the move for a long while.

Hawke returned to his feet with a smile, his boots clanking harshly in the quiet of night as he made to greet the warn man.

“Easy. Take a breath, man. It's not the end of the world.”

The scout waved the envelope in front of himself, using the gesture as an opening to catch any breath his lungs could afford. “A message for you, _Messere_.”

Garrett glanced down at the writing of his name on the front. The writing he knew all too well, almost as well as he knew that of his brother's. _Anders_. He was aware how difficult it was for the fugitive mage to send him messages. He had been with the beginnings of dread of his friend's fate when he hadn't heard from him for quite some time. But now, he found a swell of relief steal over him.

“It arrived at Skyhold during your absence. Due to the lack of clarity on the sender or subject, Leliana deemed it necessary to bring you the message on the battlefield. Only on the off-chance that it could be of utmost importance. I do hope I have not delayed much anticipated information, _Messere_.”

Hawke laughed, shaking his head, “On the contrary, you've done well. Have some food and rest. No need to go rushin' like that on my account.”

Fenris watched as the adviser tucked the envelope into the belt of his pants quickly, his metal armor rattling as he pat the man on the shoulder. The scout excused himself soon after, leaving them alone once more.

The stolen magic of the moment broken, Garrett turned toward Fenris with a smirk, “Guess that's my sign to hit the hay. Can't go lettin' my beauty sleep slip away from me.” With that, he winked at Fenris and went to his shared tent with Varric.

The elf's keen ears picked up on a groan of discomfort as the looming mage climbed into the tent. Apparently, he'd flopped down next to Varric.

“Stop usin' me for a pillow! Andraste's knickers, Hawke!”

“You're so warm.”

“And charming.”

“I really am!Oh, you meant you?” Garrett shot back, a mirthful tone to his words.

Not long after that, all was silent again as the two finally settled into an agreement of sleeping arrangements found within.

Fenris glanced back at the spot where Hawke had been keeping him company, the warm smell of pine still wafting about the air. Clearing his throat, the elf rubbed at the back of his neck in irritation. How he had fallen into a such an enjoyable exchange with that man, he had no idea. And here he had been absolutely adverse to the general presence of the mage. But now that he sat in the overbearing stillness of the night, he found he would be remiss not to admit, even to himself, that he rather longed for the gentle conversation with the man.

Growling at himself, Fenris buried his face in his hands. Long, thin fingers gripped at threads of his hair as he tried to quiet his humming heart. Much as he tried, the warmth continued to spread with each breath and curse through his brain.

 _This_...was unforeseen.

 

 

 

 


	7. Walls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When an Altus and former Tevinter slave collide, nothing is safe.
> 
> [Warnings: mentions of slavery and violence.]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit more to the meaty grit of it all. Fenris' slavery (hints of it), the opinion of slavery within the Imperium, etc. A lot of groundwork is being set up with this chapter. I hope you still find it to be satisfying. :) Also, Dorian is a doll. His view on slavery is problematic, definitely. But he's open to change. This is far from a hateful interpretation on his character. It's merely a revisit of his stance on the subject towards the beginning of the game. Anyway, enjoy! 
> 
> [also, I think a lot can be said when a person can be with another person in silence and be just as fulfilled. ;) ]

“ _You are confined only by the walls you build yourself_.” --Andrew Murphey

****

The sun was high in the sky on the following day by the time the Inquisitor emerged from his tent. His face was drawn, haggard in appearance as he tightened a glove onto his right hand. Keeping his 'blessed' palm free, he adjusted the rest of his gear and attached his daggers safely to his side.

“You feelin' alright, Boss?” Bull questioned, his large body crumpled over a breakfast dish. His second of the morning.

Lavellan faltered, hesitation pressing over his brow like a cold-sweat before he could offer a reassuring smile. Or attempt one, at least. “Quite fine, Bull. Thank you. Is everyone ready?”

The rest of the party nodded. Most of them had been waiting impatiently since the mists and dews of early morning had stolen over the Hinterlands.

Fenris masked a yawn against his forearm. His green eyes tinged with red, he cast a groggy glance about the company. For having fought such a beast just the day before, they stood ready to follow the Dalish elf. Such a devotion was a rarity in Thedas. Much less in a time of such conflict as the present day. And yet, the good souls of the world had stepped forward to shoulder a burden that many shunned. In Tevinter, allegiance was bought and threatened, never given freely. Not truly.

Even Bull. He had put together a company comprised of loners and runaways at just an offer, nothing more. Such otherworldly lifestyles that the former slave had never had the courtesy to see firsthand before. It was a revelation, to say the least. It changed nothing of his circumstances, however. He knew as much. But it was somewhat of an endearment to see that the world did not begin and end with corruption and power. Those that sought such extremes were often opposed. And here, in light of the former magister rising against the free worlds of Thedas, a ray of light in the Inquisition stood steadfast against him. If he was sure of anything, he was sure he was pleased to be a part of such a movement. No matter how much he griped at Bull otherwise.

Pricking his eyes over the party once more, he found his former night companion conversing with an Inquisition messenger in quiet, just away from the rest of the group. His face was tied together in seriousness, those bewitching eyes of his narrowed as he spoke in hurried, hushed tones with the woman. The human female nodded from time to time, her expression open and eager as she gazed up at the adviser to the mages. Such a reaction was common to a figure of his nature. Not that he took notice of such things. Even if he knew little of the man himself, Fenris could decipher a man truly gloating in glory and one who truly did not give a damn. This man was of the latter composition.

“Let's get goin', then. Ready?”

Fenris jerked his attention back towards the Qunari captain, who had polished off his second meal rather quickly and was attaching his weapon. He followed suit, harnessing his sword onto his slim shoulders. “Lead on.”

–

Taking point, the Inquisitor trudged forward with the warden once more. Cassandra remained close to Fenris, offering slight conversation when the moment suited her. Bull wandered on the elf's other side, grumbling his discontent whenever she would make an observation regarding his eating habits. Hawke and Varric, much like usual, took the rear. Unlike most animated exchanges, however, they spoke in quiet tones, their expressions murky and illegible. Ever since the arrival of his letter last night, the large mage had been stolen to another realm of thought. The subject matter, however, seemed to be something the dwarf was well-versed in. He offered quick responses, his face displaying little to no outward changes for those who may be caught watching.

“Have you finished your book yet?” Cassandra asked timidly, this time a little more quietly. Last time she had drawn attention to their discussion. The sudden interjection had resulted in a look of discomfort on the elf's face. She was too brash and often without tact, but she would make effort when she could afford one.

Fenris chewed over his response a while before actually offering her any answer, “I have...skimmed it.”

She blinked, “Truly? That is all?”

He cast his focus back towards the front of the entourage, his fingers twitching at his sides, “I merely have not had the appropriate...setting.”

Pentaghast mulled over his deft reply, trying her best to pin down such reasoning. “Perhaps you are having trouble understanding the motives of the hero?”

Fenris chewed the inside of his cheek, warning himself to keep any anger in check. How could he possibly struggle to understand motives he had yet to know of? “Perhaps.”

It was then that the Nevarran woman spoke, a little more brightly this time, “If it suits you, we could read and discuss them together?”

Stealing a look at her from the corner of his almond-shaped eyes, Fenris settled upon the offer for a while. It would be an easy way to hear the book's contents. Then he could throttle that mage for recommending it to him. Once he understood it, of course. And she still had to retell the rest of the 'Tale of the Champion' to him.

“...fine.”

Bull chirped in at this, his lips pressed high in a truly delighted smirk, “Making lots of friends, aren't ya, Sparkles?”

Fenris scowled openly, his green eyes glinting in return, “In case I need to replace any associations I _currently_ have.”

“Ouch.”

“Mind your own business, Bull.”

“I would be more than happy to mind my own business if you would just fess up to yourself and just--”

Heavy footsteps spilled over the trio's hearing. The harsh clang of metal against metal, of leather brushing over skin as a form moved closer. Fenris caught sight of the burly Ferelden slipping past them just in time to see him take point next to the Inquisitor. He could hear the dwarf sighing heavily behind them.

“There is trouble, Varric?” Cassandra asked, her eyes curious and pointed in their staring.

Tethras smirked, “What makes you think I'd tell you honestly if there was, Cassandra?”

That was all it took to rile the Seeker. The rest of the journey was spent with the two bickering loudly at the rear. Fenris couldn't quite register their complaints, however. His focus was solely on the forms of the Inquisitor and his adviser. Something was wrong.

–

After their return to Skyhold, Lavellan stood looming over the war table. His palms supported his weight as he bore holes into the current missions littering the wooden surface. His thoughts agonized over one iron piece in particular. It stood brazenly against the frayed and tattered map, the glint of metal indignant in the candlelight. The missive associated with the token was scattered in sections next to it.

Kirkwall.

Upon their return, he had slipped into the War Room without so much as a word to anyone else. They had arrived late in the night, anyway. It was best to let those involved in the inner-workings of the Inquisition sleep while they could afford the luxury. From the concerns of his palm to the uncertainty of the request from Sebastian Vael, he found himself completely lost.

“And here I thought I was the only one up this late for a bit of 'light' reading.”

Lavellan felt a calm rush over his nerves, his stomach instantly warming at the sound of the familiar voice. He made no move to look at the approaching man. He would make to his side soon enough. Instead, he chuckled, “I'd hate to see what your idea of 'heavy' reading is.”

His new-found company chortled in response, offering nothing in reply. He came to stand next to Lavellan, the stones on his clothing bright in the otherwise dimly lit room.

“You're quite rude, you know.”

The Dalish stood to his full height once more, his arms crossing over his chest lightly, “Oh?”

Dorian rubbed at his mustache, eyes glittering from behind thick, dark lashes, “No 'hello' upon your return? Downright boorish, you know. Tsk, tsk.”

The Inquisitor smiled slightly, the corners of his lips pulling upwards marginally at the concern of the man. “I'm not foreign to the nature of scandal, Dorian. A Dalish, the Herald of Andraste and the leader of the heretic Inquisition? I cannot remember the last 'scandal' I've heard of such caliber. I do know, however, if left to the imaginations of many here in Skyhold that 'scandal' could grow to another meaning, if left unattended.”

Pavus shot him a smug look, “Point taken, Inquisitor. Now, now, do tell: what has you in such a right mess?”

Pointed ears fell down slightly, his expression melancholy as he motioned towards the table behind him. “Among many other things, I'm afraid.”

“I see. Perhaps I can offer a change in thought patterns? That often helps me whenever I'm stumped.”

Lavellan blinked slowly, his eyes curious and glowing softly where the candle did not reach his sight, “I couldn't ask that of you, Dorian.”

“You aren't asking it of me. I'm offering of my own accord. Please take note, however, that it's not free. You'll owe me. Later.”

The elf chuckled, his tone dropping ever-so-slightly, “Oh? Perhaps I can send for some wine from Tevinter to sate that 'price' of yours.”

Dorian leaned closely, his nose nearly brushing Lavellan's, “Far from it, Inquisitor. I have quite another 'craving'.”

The Inquisitor breathed in sharply, his stare immediately darting up to Dorian's own, “Scandal, Pavus. You are aware of the term.”

The mage smiled broadly, his hand reaching to take a hold of the shorter male's, “I'm rather fond of the term, yes. More so, I'm more fond of the company in which the term denotes. Am I clear?”

Lavellan watched him closely, his burdens seeming smaller in comparison to the unspoken matter swirling about them, daring to be acknowledged through words. “Quite.”

Pavus brushed his thumb over the high angle of the elf's cheekbone, his face pleased, “Good.”

–

“What man has these kind of measurements? I mean, truly!” The tailor wailed, his eyes lustful and a little too forward as he took Hawke's inside-leg. “Those shoulders! How do you ever find clothing to fit?!”

Garrett flexed his biceps happily, “Listen, I already _know_. But could you just get on with it?”

The Orleisian man sighed loudly, his tone dreamy, “My greatest project yet. A formal wear for the Champion of Kirkwall. Marvelous.”

Josephine stood to the side, her cheeks burnt red as she tried to look elsewhere, “I do apologize, Champion.”

Hawke shrugged, letting out a breath as he waited (impatiently) for the man to finish. “Just do me a favor, whatever you do, make it slimming. I can't have the Orlesian nobles thinking I've gone all flabby in my absence.”

After a few more moments, the man returned to his feet and shook his measuring tape at Hawke's nose, his mask hiding most of his pleasure, “I will have his finery ready in a week.”

“Wonderful,” Garrett groaned.

Josephine shot the Ferelden a warning look as she escorted the tailor from the Skyhold hall.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I get it,” Garrett teased, his face painted in amusement as he made his way towards the library once more. He'd sent a reply to Anders, finally, along with the book he'd found tucked away on the shelves. He knew the healer would finish with the literature in no time at all. In an effort to preoccupy his friend, he made his return to the upper-rooms in hopes of finding another book to send.

–

The bellowing coming from the library was far from the quiet sanctuary many suspected such a place to be. In fact, it bordered the essence of a battlefield just before bodies littered the ground with blood and shattered tomorrows.

Swift remarks and shouts belonged to two pairs of lungs. And on occasion, a distraught yell from down in the rotunda warned them that they were being 'quite rude' and that they should stop immediately. Hawke passed the apostate elven mage as he neared the library. The elven male had his face screwed up at the second floor of the rotunda, his face reddening with rage. On occasion, his palm would slam against the top of the small desk that took some of the space in his private haven.

Smirking at how much the discord and general unpleasantness brought back memories of his home in Kirkwall, Garrett found himself darting up the stairs –two at a time. He wanted to know just what could move two people to behave in such a way. In an utterly peaceful location, of all places.

“You know _nothing_ of slavery!”

 _Oh no_. He didn't know the context of the altercation, but the subject matter was something many in Thedas argued over quite frequently.

“I know enough to know that a slave is free of the cold and the decisions of being without shelter and food for their stomachs. Poverty is not chosen. Unlike those without the proper backing and coin here in the south, in Tevinter, a slave can have social standing and a pair of two strong legs to support themselves and their fami--”

“You speak lies, _magister_!”

“The magister bit again. Surely you have excellent hearing with ears such as those fine ones attached to your head? An Altus, sir. And I never said it was without its issues. It just merely... _is_.”

“Because men like you allow such monstrosities to continue! How many more slaves must suffer behind closed doors so that those of the 'proper' social standings may remain at peace in their gluttony and greed?!”

Dorian's mouth parted, his brows nearly stitched together, such was the display of his disagreement. His sparing partner was none other than the Charger elf warrior Hawke had spent a night chatting with.

Garrett felt compassion swell over his recognition at this. The man had mentioned his affinity for wine and his childhood spent in Tevinter. Even someone like Hawke could put two and two together and come up with the proper math (most of the time). Elves held no social standing or claims to power in Tevinter, thus the elf had been but only one case of citizen within the Imperium. And such was the birth of this argument, quite possibly.

“The Imperium has ruled in its way for many centuries. Slavery is the lesser of its offenses, surely you can agree?”

Fenris' eyes flashed a dangerous look, his body so entirely stiff and ready to strike that he was certain the pounding in his head was from a vein threatening to explode. It took all the self-control he could manage to keep his lyrium brands from lighting. With all the venom he could muster, he pointed a gauntlet-dressed finger at Pavus, his expression wild and filled to the brim with hate, “If a man knows nothing of the subject of which he speaks and yet he still finds words, many would mark him an imbecile. Such as you are, mage. The very essence of the Imperium stems from ignorant nobles, such as you, that depend upon the chains and lack of opportunities of the slaves within their employ. Slaves are subjected to unspeakable acts by the magisters and those seeking power that should never belong to a mortal in the first place--”

“See here! Slavery has a--”

That was enough. If it continued as it was, the two would certainly give those around more than a mere verbal disagreement. And not only that...

Garrett's eyes watched the elven man closely. The pain was evident. For animals and the races of men alike, when cornered or wounded, they will attack to defend themselves. The chains of the conversation weighed heavily upon him. Perhaps his life in Tevinter had been just as brutal as the elder Hawke had come to imagine for the slaves within the Imperium. It was unnecessary. He'd seen nothing but redeeming qualities in the elf, in spite of his days spent as a slave. True, his mistrust for mages (a distrust rightfully placed) had been a hurdle but even so, he was not without understanding and proper gauging of a character. Thus, they had begun a civility. It was too much to watch.

If he convinced himself enough, he told himself that his feet moved to protect the assets of the Inquisition he now helped head. The altercation would only escalate and those around would be caught in the crossfire. What brought his body to life, however, was the emaciated expression on the elf's face. His white hair fell in front of his eyes, completely disheveled and obscuring any clarity he could afford. His lips were wet from contending, his teeth flashing in vicious snarls as he retorted any and all words Pavus could offer in return. The metal bands of his armor made soft clunking noises as he tried to steady his nerves. At his sides, his hands were balled into fists too-tight. Garrett felt his heart clench at the sight. The elven man was more than capable enough of fighting his own battles, but even this was too much.

“ _Enough_.”

Dorian and Fenris made no indication that they'd heard anything other than their own despairs. Just as Dorian was to make a rebuttal, Garrett stepped forward and pressed himself between the two. Fenris took a step backwards automatically, to allow room for the sudden intrusion. Brushing his hair quickly from his sight, he found his eyes filled with broad, broad shoulders. A crest of some sort filled between the shoulder blades. The fabric was of a maroon, tied tightly around a firm waist and thick hips. The scent, growing ever-more familiar, filled his nostrils once more. And in some dark recess of his mind, he was placated from the absence.

“If it isn't the Champion of Kirkwall,” Pavus breathed, his smile daring and a little alluring as he, too, took a step away. Contrary to his outward appearance, he was pleased at the interjection.

Hawke gave Dorian a matching grin, his eyes soft as he stood there, “I don't know how they do it in Tevinter, but I'm pretty sure a conversation like this is suited for outside, dontcha think?”

The altus chuckled, “I did not expect such an outcome, believe me.”

“ _You asked for this outcome, ma_ -”

Garrett reached behind him, waving Fenris' outburst off dismissively before he continued again, “I'm not really an expert on many things, but I have a feeling you're not too bad off with money where you're from. Nothin' wrong with it. But as a man who's had to claw his way to the top, let me remind you, the bottom is dirty and swept under the rug so that all curious eyes may only find sunshine and roses. It's not like that. Be careful who you offer that opinion to here in Ferelden. Alienages, the Circle, slavery, it's all downright disgustin'. No one is more entitled than another. Even those of noble birth. Nobility is a title, nothing more. I'm the son of a noble, you know. And what's funny, is when we went to cash in on it, we found nothing but debt and destitution. So I worked for my brother and my mother. And for years, we went without meals and proper clothing or furnishings. But something more than that? We had it _made_ compared to those in alienages. Those in the Circle. Those who served under masters and stood no chance to look at the sun and see it as a free person. I know nothing of the struggles of such lives. Seeing as you're on the benefiting end of such a nasty business, perhaps it would be better to educate yourself than to spout such a biased opinion so freely? Certainly a slave would rather die from his own free will, than under the license of a man determining his life and all he holds dear?”

Clearing his throat, Garrett laughed and rubbed at the back of his head in embarrassment, “Enough of that. I think I hear a whiskey callin' my name. What about it, huh? I'll buy!”

Fenris listened with eager ears, his heart slamming so hard against his ribcage so roughly that he was certain a few of the ribs were broken by now. Anger coincided with relief and subtle appreciation as he stood there, peacefully in the aura of the man. Just what the hell was his deal, anyway? Did he have some sort of savior complex? First the dragon, and now the mage from Tevinter. Frustration filled his limbs, more so than thankfulness. He never asked for any sort of aid. He was not of Fenris' confidence, so why?

“Remember, stop by tonight. Bring the Inquisitor. We'll have a good ol' fashioned drink off.” And with that, he was off. Much like the whirlwind that tore through a landscape, so was this Ferelden.

 His large shadow shifted before his expansive form ever faced the smaller warrior. Trailing up the barrel-chested man, Fenris' eyes found the warm, honey color of Garrett's already searching for his. The too-bright and too-engaging lopsided smile skirted over his lips as he stared down at the elf, “Let's get outta here, alright? Too much read-y things goin' on in here.”

Fenris felt the corners of his lips begin to shift upwards, daring to grace a smile in spite of his current irritation at the man. No, he wouldn't fall to his offhanded charm so easily. He was angry. And rightfully so. “First of all--”

Garrett yawned loudly, bee lining for the closest exist (up to the third floor, past Leliana, and out onto the ramparts). “Can't hear you!” He teased, his long legs hopping over steps and various boxes with little effort.

In his eagerness to tell the man just exactly what he thought of him, Fenris made no recognition of being led away from Pavus. Instead, he found himself bathed in sunlight as Hawke finally came to a stop in the middle of the ramparts.

“Ah, were you sayin' something?” The mage questioned, knowing full well he'd just missed a rather heavy assault from the elven warrior.

Out of anger, nerves, and need to catch up to the long stride of the man, Fenris now found himself a bit winded. He breathed through his nostrils heavily, his eyes never breaking with those of the towering Ferelden. Once he was certain he could speak his mind without having to gasp for air, he parted his mouth, “You are quite audacious a man, Hawke.”

Garrett cocked his head lazily, his elbows taking place against the stone overlook. The breeze caught his hair, tousling it gently as Fenris spoke. The sleeves of his finery (one of the few things he he had managed to salvage before the departure from Kirkwall) ruffled, the light glinting off the silk embroidery. “That so?”

Fenris gave a curt nod, his arms folding over his sturdy chest as he took a few steps closer, “Men like that need to be taught exactly how cruel the world of slavery is. They speak so freely of a suffering they know nothing of. And then _you_!”

Hawke turned his gaze back towards the white-haired elf, his expression soft and just as warm as the sun that was currently dancing over their shoulders, “What about me?”

“I never asked you to intervene; with that dragon or with that filthy mage!”

The Champion gave a gentle sigh, his large hands running along the stone as he thought to answer, “You shouldn't have to.”

 **Shouldn't...have...to**?

This brought Fenris to an absolute halt. His throat dried and his lungs clenched tight. All thoughts escaped him as he tried to thoroughly digest just what the man had just said. He'd expected many things from his accusation to the mage's prior behavior, but this had not been one of them.

“What...do you mean?”

Garrett shrugged, his demeanor nonchalant and just as unreadable as ever. His general carefree behavior was a mystery to Fenris. How could a person constantly be so unbothered by the world? He had been a champion to a city. Many lives depended and respected him. And even now, he was a vital head and decision maker for the Inquisition. And yet here he stood, completely unperturbed in all his greatness.

“I mean just what I said, I guess? Sometimes, you shouldn't have to ask things of others. We all live in the world together, shouldn't we try to make it a better place?”

“And that is accomplished through such insignificant acts such as those?” Fenris spat, his lack of understanding coloring him sullen and unsettled.

“I mean, isn't it, though? It's the small stuff that changes a person. And if a person changes, they go on to change others. And slowly, things start getting better, don't they?” Garrett blinked slowly, a bit uncertain of himself now, “That makes sense, right?”

Fenris gawked openly.

His slack-jawed expression earned a delighted smile from Hawke in return. “Then again, they had me doin' all sorts of favors for everyone in Kirkwall. Old habits die hard, apparently.”

Righting himself, the elf tucked a strand of white hair behind his long, pointed ear before he spoke again, “Still.”

The mage adviser recovered to his full height once more, his lashes dusting his cheeks as he surveyed the clearly disquieted elf, “Listen, if it really makes you that mad, then I won't go pokin' my nose into your business.”

Fenris shredded his current focus from the ground back towards Hawke, his heart thrumming and burning with each rush of blood through his brain. Of course he wanted that. Keeping everyone at a distance was an easy feat for him to deal with. Too much of himself remained a mystery. It was a luxury he couldn't properly afford, involving himself in another person. And yet he found his thoughts constantly drowning inside every small notion or action this man committed.

All he had to do was tell this mage to retire from his busybody work and he would be free of the nonsense. It was simple. He merely needed to agree and that was that.

That would be the end of it.

Garrett waited calmly, his steady breaths fanning against the top of Fenris' sensitive ears as he lingered. The scent that was distinct to this human once again permeated into Fenris' lungs and left him intoxicated. Much like an empty bucket being knocked about by children at play, his heart rattled uneasily inside his chest.

He would stop all of this. He could go back to his life with the Chargers and be free of any attachment to the world of magic he'd so willingly left behind. His mind would settle and his heart would once more be in good standing. All curiosities would fade and he would be free to just be as he had been.

“Well?”

Fenris peeked upward, his cheeks just a little flushed. From the heat, Hawke assumed. It was then that something quite unexpected, to them both, transpired: “Do as you will.”

 _Don't go_.

Garrett squinted at the man, a tepid smile creeping onto his face, “That so?”

The elf shifted in embarrassment, doing his best to look anywhere else, “ _Mm_.”

When he dared take a look at the man again, he found the Champion already looking at him fully. He had a tendency to do that. Whenever Fenris was certain he could sneak a glance, the adviser would already be gazing at him. Just what was so damn interesting, anyway?

Hawke hummed his approval, turning his focus back to the courtyard below. Neither spoke. They merely stood next to one another and existed, long into the day.

 


	8. There Will Be Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric is bound and determined to have a peek into Hawke's state of mind. It might be easier said than done. And with the ball at the Winter Palace approaching, the Inquisitor finds a sudden change to his entourage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hawke and Varric's friendship does something to me. [clenches fist]
> 
> {warnings: slurs, violence, alcohol use}

“ _To love is to burn, to be on_ _ **fire**_.” - Jane Austen

****

Meetings pulled the advisers and inquisitor in every direction for the rest of the day. Seemingly, much of the afternoon prior to their discussions had seemed a distant dreamland. When all progress had come to a stalemate inside the war chamber, the assembly was dissolved in favor of food and a night's rest and fresh state of minds.

No one was more thrilled at the adjourning than Garrett Hawke. He'd spent most of the last half of their tentative discussions squirming with the call of hunger and idleness. Men of his temperament were better left without direction and to their wiles. Not that he was incapable of asserting himself properly. Quite the contrary. Kirkwall had been evidence of that. His heart, however, led his path. It had not sent him astray yet. He would continue to follow it until his feet could no longer do its bidding.

Rubbing his stomach through his finery, he slipped through Montilyet's study quickly (before she could catch him for another fitting, or whatever it was she had been going on and on about during their meeting). Reaching the dining hall, he stretched and yawned a little too loudly. A few Orlesians cast wary glances before identifying the source. All irritations were quickly dismissed and instead replaced with pliant expressions he knew to be of a predator in waiting. He usually steered clear of the masked empire dwellers. They knew far too much and feigned to know so little that it was unnerving. A man so brunt and honest, such as he was, would surely be eaten alive. He'd take his chances with a dragon.

Ohhh, a dragon.

The thought sent all other tangible notions to the grave. His eyes shimmered with unspoken enthusiasm as he meandered towards the kitchens. It was there that he happened to stumble upon his most favorite and wonderful friend Varric.

“Hawke!” He greeted warmly, his large hands holding a plate in either one, “I got one for you too. I figured you'd be held hostage all day so I knew you'd have a hankering for some food afterwards. Looks like I timed this just right.”

Garrett's mouth instantly spread into an ornery, lopsided grin, “Varric!” He exclaimed. The tone alone spoke of his gratitude and happiness. He would offer nothing more. It was a mutual understanding and affection between the two that it was best left unsaid.

Following his trusty dwarf back towards the hall, he twisted his spine in an effort to remove any kinks, “It's torture.”

“If it's anything like a sounding board session for a book, it's murder.”

The elder Hawke nodded fervently, “They're going to continue to put off the Kirkwall ordeal as long as possible. We both know, however, Sebastian can only be happy with prettily-worded letters for so long.”

Varric let out a groan as they took a spot in a corner all to themselves. They would be free to converse hidden matters here, if it came to light. “Be careful how loud you go on about that guy. He's about as good with an arrow as I am. He'll get you dead between the eyes clear from Starkhaven.”

Muffling a chuckle against a slice of bread, Garrett shrugged, “Just bein' honest.”

Choosing to guzzle at his water first, Tethras took the opportunity at the introduction of 'honesty' as his chance. With blue eyes far too keen for their own good, the blond spoke, “Speaking of being honest...”

Hawke was wasting no time in devouring every last drop of his plate. Varric would have to be quick if he had any hopes of getting a bite of his own dinner before the human turned his ferocity to his dinner as well. The gobbling sounds was all the cue the storyteller needed to continue. “I saw you, ya know.”

The confession did little to slow down Hawke's appetite. Instead, the Champion continued to munch at his food. His eyes seemed blank as he stared across the table. Clearly, he hadn't the slightest idea as to what the archer had been hinting at.

_Typical_.

Sighing exaggeratedly, Varric tried again, “Before your meetings today...”

Garrett kicked Tethras lightly in the shin from underneath the table, “Could you...be more...specific?” He grumbled between munches of ham.

The dwarf tore at his food, taking quick swallows from time to time as he smirked. Hawke knew that sight a little too well. It was an expression the two wore well around one another; a telling tale that could almost always go unspoken. Just what was it that he knew?

“The ramparts, _Hawke_.”

The Champion tilted his head, finally taking a breath between chomps and gurgles of drink. “Ramparts?”

Irritating. The man was so upfront about most things that it was difficult for Varric to tease him when it came to certain matters. Perhaps it hadn't been what the sneaky writer had spied upon earlier. Maybe he had read too far into the situation. Of course he was prone to such things. His best selling series was an acclaimed example of such ideals.

But he'd noticed the look on the elf's face. No one could sport an expression like that without having been inspired prior. The guilty party had to have been the large brute of a man that had been standing next to him. Just what had happened?

He tried once more. “Hawke, I'm your best friend, remember? On top of that, I think I might just have you bested when it comes to bullshit.”

Hawke cocked a brow, clearly not buying that self-proclamation.

Varric waved his hands in an effort to buy himself a bit of time, “I said I _think_! Anywho, like I was saying, I think I can tell when something's going on. So spill it.”

The mage wiped his mouth and beard clean of any wreckage from his meal. Nudging the plate to the side, Garrett leaned forward onto his elbows and stared hard at the dwarf, “Is there somethin' in the water today? You okay?”

Tethras snorted, “If there's something in the water, it's not strong enough for my tolerance.”

With a laugh, the other nodded in agreement, “True.”

Watching Hawke openly reach across the table towards his own meal, Varric did his best to scarf down the important bits. He surrendered a few nibbles of bread and vegetables before he continued, “What'd you do this morning?”

Honey eyes squinted at the dwarf, his expression curious, “Listen, if anyone asks about that burn mark on Growler's desk, it wasn't me.”

“That's awfully specific, Hawke. At least tell me it's some kind of picture.”

Garrett's face flickered in excitement, “It's _definitely_ anatomically correct.”

Slamming his hand on the table with a loud guffaw, Varric pinched at the bridge of his nose as he imagined the image square in the middle of the moody ex-templar's desk. It was obvious the man hadn't found the hidden gem quite yet. All of Skyhold would hear the moment he did.

“As much as I find that delightful, that's not quite what I meant. Thanks for giving me your dirty secrets, though.”

“Pleasure.”

“Now, what about after that?”

“I went to the library. Looking for another book for Anders,” Hawke murmured, the name nearly silent as it passed through his lips. He took great caution to protect his friend. Well, **friends** , if you included Justice.

“You sent word concerning this false Calling?”

Garrett gave a quick nod, “I told him of Sebastian's vendetta as well.”

Varric seemed grim as he listened, his pulse thrumming at the possibilities such a move would stir within Kirkwall. Not to mention the two men sitting across from one another currently. He could share in Sebastian's pain. For the loss of his loved ones, his rage was justified. But to completely empty an already shattered city in an effort to seek revenge upon a mage that had brought freedom to mages everywhere, it was selfish. No way around it. His pain over the matter was nothing in comparison to the fatigue on Hawke's brow as he, too, thought of Vael. He'd spoken his betrayal and wrath to Hawke without filter when the Champion had spared his friend Anders of the executioner's touch.

“Will you go, Hawke?”

The adviser gazed steadily towards the dwarf, his fingers threading together to let his chin rest upon their surface, “I will.”

Tethras nodded, having already known the answer before asking.

“Will you come with me, Varric?”

Flicking a pea across the table at Garrett, the smaller male snickered, “You can't sleep at night without your trusty dwarf, right? Guess I have to come with you.”

A flooding smile of relief and adoration filtered over the human's face, “I kinda figured you would anyway. Can't miss a good story. This one will practically write itself.”

“Exactly!”

Silence fell over them, the warmth of their mutual feelings swelling over the pair. To think that for all that he had lost in his personal life, he would gain in friendship while in the City of Chains. The Champion would forever be grateful.

“Now, back to what I was saying,” Varric tried, clearing his throat.

“Right.”

“After the library, what happened?”

“You know, libraries are a lot more action-packed than they used to be. Maybe I would have gone more had they been like that when I was growin' up in Lothering.”

“Don't sit there and lie to me, Hawke. You wouldn't be going now if it wasn't for Blondie.”

Garrett chuckled, “True. I can't have him getting bored. It's bad enough he constantly has to be on the move. A good book will help him keep his mind busy.”

“What happened in the library, by the way?”

“A big ol' blow out. That mage from Tevinter was gettin' into it with the elf from the Bull's Chargers.”

Alarm stole over Varric as the topic of his curiosity finally made an appearance, “Sparkler got into it with Sparkles? Sparkler and Sparkles, the shimmering showdown...what even could they have to yell about?”

Hawke leaned back, stretching his large arms with a grunt, “It's not really the subject that's important. They just were kinda at each other's throat about it.” Choosing to spare the topic from Varric surprised even Hawke. But down in his stomach and the depths of his consideration he knew that the elven warrior would prefer such things to be kept quiet and limited to those involved in the matter directly. 

“Hmm.”

“So I kinda stepped in. Don't really know what came over me. Guess it's 'cause I'm the oldest. Whenever the siblings are fighting, you let them have at it a bit before you stop 'em.”

“ _Siblings_ , huh?”

“So then I went to the ramparts with Fenris.”

Varric hid a smile behind his mug as he pretended to drink. Fenris. A first name so easily dropped. Stopping _siblings_ , his ass.

“Have a nice little talk up there, did ya?”

Garrett shrugged, ruffling his hair, “I mean, I dunno, he was kinda pissed so I talked him down a bit. Bit of a temper on that one.”

“I saw.”

“You what?”

“I saw you up there with him,” Tethras breathed, finally relieved to be at the heart of his teasing. “You two seemed to be having a good ol' time up there.”

“It was a nice day?”

“Maybe to you. Seemed like a real nice day to _him_.”

Hawke stared hard at the man, his confusion written like water: clear.

“Maybe you should be more aware of the company you keep. That one's a little prickly.”

“It's not like that, Varric.”

“It isn't?” He questioned, his tone suggestive and a little amused.

The mage slumped in his seat, his eyes searching as he looked at his friend, “I'm not following.”

“You know, I was so certain he hated you when you got here. But these last few months, it seems like things are taking a different turn. Maybe _hate_ wasn't the right label for it.”

Garrett blinked once more, “I just spent some time with him. It's not that big of a deal. What are you gettin' at?”

“Nothing, nothing. Just musing, I suppose.”

Perhaps the elder Hawke had been so lost to Kirkwall and his stolen family that he had little inclination to even his own feelings. Hawke wasn't the most insightful person, especially when it came to his own notions and wants. If he could not be honest with himself, Varric would do his best to humor the man.

And with the way things were evolving, perhaps a love affair was not the best reality. War was licking at the heels of the Inquisition. Not to mention the guaranteed involvement in Kirkwall. He knew Hawke had unfinished business with Corypheus and Vael. He would be thrown into chaos too many times for his heart to be any where else. Perhaps it was best for the human not to realize the elf's budding affections. It was likely better yet that Hawke was unaware of his lingering focus upon the Charger. It was subtle. But Varric, well-versed in difficult relationships of the heart, could spot growing intrigue. His friend spent many moments eying the elf when time would allow. His gaze sought the white-haired man out without him realizing. Perhaps he dismissed it as nothing more than an appreciation for beautiful things. Such an explanation was very much how Garrett would see things. But more than the eyes, Varric often witnessed the large man seeking out the elf's company in small things. He'd seen it firsthand around the campfire. The challenge of gathering a cynic to enjoy his company had always been a past time of Hawke's. For every subconscious action, he was certain the elder sibling would have an answer for himself. Every possible answer he could contrive except for the only evident answer. That thought caused Varric pause. His friend deserved such an attachment. He hadn't shared any tails of romantic intrigue since they'd been introduced. The only stories he ever heard was those of bed hopping. Nothing more.

There had been a time when Tethras had been certain Hawke and the healer Anders would fall into one another. An oblivious Champion and a shying mage had kept them from such possibilities. Such results, Varric chalked up to fate not having smiled upon them in such a way. Would he see the same answer here in Skyhold?

...Or would there be finally be **fire**?

–

Bull nodded furiously at the Inquisitor, “It's a favor.”

Lavellan crossed his arms, seemingly hesitant, “Peculiar.”

The qunari sighed loudly, his tone frantic, “C'mon, boss! I never ask for anythin'. Just one little favor for ol' Iron Bull.”

“I do not even know if there is time to send for the fine clothes.”

“Lemme talk to Josie. I'll convince her. It'll be a cinch once she's involved.”

“May I ask as to why you would rather send one of your men in your stead?”

“I ain't no good at those fancy ball things. 'Sides, Orlesians like pokin' at my self-restraint until I end up skewerin' one of 'em like a kabob. Then they scream and hurt my ears. It ain't a pretty picture.”

The Dalish chuckled at the explanation before giving his consent, “Fine, I will allow it. I have seen your Chargers fight firsthand. I trust their skills. May I ask...which of your company will be accompanying my own to the Winter Palace?”

Bull's lips parted in a sneaking sneer, “Sparkles.”

–

“I can't move about my arms!”

Krem groaned, flicking Fenris in the cheek, “Shut up, man. Just hold still.”

Fenris glared at the other man wordlessly, doing his best to hold still under the stiff fabric of the fine clothes. They had arrived earlier that afternoon. Just in time for their depart to Orlais the next morning before dawn.

The ambassador had demanded he try it on as soon as it arrived. As to why he was being sent to the ball instead of the Iron Bull, he could only imagine. The qunari lacked in taste with most things. He could envision the disorder his appearance would cause throughout the entire Winter Palace. Unluckily, due to his prior life in Tevinter, he knew too well the demands of social etiquette. And most clothing requirements. These clothes, however, were testing his patience.

“Finished,” Krem offered, his expression pleased as he took a step back to survey his efforts.

Fenris had always been the one to dress his master. Never had he been the one dressing in the intricate social attires. So the whole aspect had been new and foreign to his otherwise expert thumbs and fingers.

“Well?”

Bull's face cracked instantly, his good eye dancing with mirth, “I like it. It'd be better if it was pink, though.”

“Can it, _Chief_ ,” Fenris warned, his green eyes dangerous as he ran his fingers down the golden buttons and silk sash.

“It's a perfect fit. Those Orlesians sure know their fashion,” Krem added, his arms crossed as he stood next to Bull.

“Why can't Krem go instead?” Fenris tried, his voice exasperated.

“Chief asked for you to go specifically.”

“But you're the lieutenant...”

“It's gotta be you, Sparkles,” Bull cut in quickly, his nose crinkled, “I need Krem with me so we can gather a bit more intel for my _Ben Hassrath_ contacts.”

“That's not a real reas-”

“That's that!” The captain exclaimed, an overly-large hand clamping down on Fenris' strong shoulder, “You'll do fine. Make me proud!”

Submitting, with great hesitation, Fenris caught sight of himself in a nearby mirror, “We are all to match, I take it?”

“Well, most of ya, anyway.”

The navy blue finery complimented the elven warrior well. It was well polished with the golden buttons and tassels on the shoulders. The collar hid most of his brands, his long hair falling over the light blue silk sash that adorned his chest and torso. It was held stable to his sides with a brilliant black leather belt. His muscular legs were covered with a fine white cotton. The decorative rapier that dangled at his side licked at his finely clad calves, the shining finish of his proper black boots completing the ensemble. As uncomfortable as he appeared, the clothing suited his fine features wonderfully.

“Now all you'll need is this,” Bull said, his voice a little loud in the otherwise quiet room.

Glancing down at his outstretched hand, Fenris' found the qunari mercenary offering a long strand of light blue ribbon. Jerking his eyes back to his captain, the warrior cocked a thick brow, “What is this for?”

Krem snickered, nudging Bull, “He thinks they'll let him in with his hair looking a fright.”

Iron Bull winked at Fenris, depositing the tie into his smaller hands, “Tie it up when you get there. That's from me and the rest of the Chargers. Have fun. But don't go gettin' drunk, alright? Still got a job to do.”

Fenris scoffed, “I suppose that's why you're sending me instead? Don't trust yourself, do you?”

The Charger captain scratched the tip of his nose sheepishly, “Somethin' like that. Now, 'bout that outfit...it's pretty much identical to everyone else's but because we waited so long to make the order, they had to change a few things.”

The elf stiffened, his eyes narrowing, “Such as?”

“The colors, mainly. Theirs are red and such.”

Fenris grumbled under his breath, tugging at the outfit, “Of course.” With a sigh, the Charger left the room to remove the clothing once he had checked his reflection once more.

When he was certain the man was out of earshot, Krem turned towards Bull, “That's not actually why you're sending him, is it, Chief?”

Bull glanced down at Krem, his expression warm, “Nah. Not even close.”

–

The entourage took several carriages, three members in each holding to keep from cramping. The white Dalish-bred stallions made their journey to Orlais with haste, their sturdy legs driving the Inquisition attendees to the soiree in great time. The advisers had gone to the Winter Palace the day before in hopes of having one more conference concerning allegiance with the Inquisition and the Empire. Lavellan and his company arrived just as dusk was falling the night of the grand ball. Leliana had smuggled their weapons into the palace upon her arrival, fearing the general premise of the Game leading to far more than sheer spilled wine upon designer shoes. With that security blanket in place, along with trusted fighters to back him if there were to be any altercations, Lavellan found himself more at ease with the entire display than he had been originally.

In truth, the Duke planned to use the Dalish inquisitor as a shock factor. The notion itself was offensive enough, but the dour looks that instantly fell to his pointed ears and marked face left him with a sinking feeling in his stomach. Much as his clan had lectured, he now knew the full extent of a shemlin's prejudiced.

“A knife-ear?! Surely Andraste would not send us a _rabbit_ in our darkest hour?!”

“Oh my, look at that rubbish on his face! What are those, the markings of a dark power? Quickly, pray to the Maker that we are spared of his heathen spirits!”

Gritting his teeth, the Inquisitor did his best to focus upon Gaspard as the usurper greeted him in outright audacious behavior. The chevalier made no moves to hide his motives. Every blatant grab for power he wore proudly, much like the fragments of his armor and the symbols of his house upon his mask.

“I remember my _friends_ , Inquisitor. We are keeping the courts waiting. Shall we?”

Lavellan nodded, following his social attachment with great reservation. He kept his chin high as he passed amongst the nobles.

The nasty remarks, he found, fell not only upon himself, but upon the elven Charger that had been sent in the Bull's stead. The warrior, however, made no show of hiding his displeasure. Instead, he openly scowled and glowered at any and all who made low remarks from behind the protection of their masks. Thankfully, Varric had taken to the man's side and had been offering soft murmurings of persuasion to keep him pacified and free of preceding bloodshed.

''At least let's get through the main dish and dance before you go throttlin' someone, alright?''

Fenris shot a warning glare at the dwarf, his discomfort evident. He had been instilled with better behavior than this. He had grown accustomed to the slurs and general dislike of his kind in Tevinter. But it had been so long and he had been so entirely free that the memories served to pang him severely still.

“They're just mad you look better in 'their' clothes than they do,” Varric offered, his voice jovial in the otherwise tense atmosphere.

There was much conniving here in the palace. From usurpers to spies, alleged scandals to the rightful heir of a thrown that had been long since left in turmoil. Not to mention the air of something far more dark slithering just beneath the surface of all the glitter and gold.

At the gates, the guards gave the Inquisitor and company and once over before grudgingly opening so that they may enter. Upon the creaking allowance, Montilyet practically came bounding towards the company before they were within eyesight of those that truly would mark them as scandalous.

“Inquisitor.”

“Lady Montilyet. You look lovely, as always,” Lavellan tried, his voice already tired.

She gave a flustered smile before continuing, “I must speak with you, Inquisitor. Before the ball.”

“Go on.”

The soft mutterings between the pair was muffled as a loud round of Orlesians expressed their dismay and utter pleasure at a certain addition to the social gathering.

“He's even more large than the stories paint him to be. Taller, you know. And _broader_.”

“Indeed! What a _thick_ man.”

“To think, the Champion of Kirkwall would grace the halls of the Winter Palace! And with the Inquisition, no less!”

Fenris' thoughts instantly sobered from anger at the mention of the Ferelden that so often cluttered his mind. Turning to look, a little too quickly (as Varric noted with a knowing smile), the elf's eyes searched until they fell upon the mage adviser. He stood nearly two heads taller than most of the Orlesian court, his profound jaw set in an awkward smile as he tried his best to blend with the nature of the beast that was Orlesian social gatherings.

“You are truly a magnificent creature, Champion!” A woman cooed, her fan working endlessly to keep her from losing her comfort to the rising heat in her blood.

“It is quite disappointing to see that you are dressed as the rest of us. How I would have liked to have seen the armor of Kirkwall!” A gentleman whined, his hands on his hips.

Garrett laughed at them lightly, shaking his head, “What good would it have been for me to take the attention from the grand halls of the Winter Palace?” He tried, his thick accent heavy and outlandish in the refined tenors of the nobles.

A few women squirmed restlessly at his responses, their increasing infatuations evident as they edged closer.

Hawke shifted slightly, the attention was something he was used to. Their ardor, however, was something to be respected; much like a predator that had cornered its prey.

Varric watched the elf from the corner of his eyes. The Charger stood stiffly, his hands squeezing at his sides as he did his best to appear disinterested in the Champion's arrival to the party. Endearing. He'd seen so many people fawn over Hawke that he was certain all adoration looked the same. But this one...

“Get me a glass of wine, knife-ear! Do you not understand proper language?”

Fenris jerked back to reality with a rough shout by an obviously drunken woman. She shook her empty wine glass at the tip of his nose, her hostility unnecessary. “What good are you servants if you can't even do a simple task?” Clicking her tongue, she shook the glass again.

Rage passed over green irises as the former-slave bristled, his heart thundering at the sheer audacity. The southerners were no better than the lords of Tevinter. Shameful. Just as he made to tear the glass from her laced fingertips, he felt a warmth flood his right shoulder.

“Madam, I'd rather you refrain from speaking in such ways.”

“He is a servant! I will speak however I well please!” She shot back, her glassy eyes dancing behind her camouflage.

“Ah, you're mistaken,” The interloper continued, their voice honeyed and inviting as Fenris felt his body being pulled closer to the source of the heat, “ You will watch your tongue, madam. And in fact--”

Amber eyes met emerald once more. Sloppy smile, hair combed into place where usually wind had tussled it, white teeth against pink lips as he spoke. _Hawke_.

“-- **He's with me**.”

 


	9. Of Dancing and Drunken Devils

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you want to make a thorough investigation into the mishappenings inside the Winter Palace, you have to blend in. What better way to blend with the party than to dance along?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! Thank you for being so patient in the update. I needed to take a bit of time to myself. Now that I'm feeling refreshed, here's chapter 9. I hope you enjoy! Thank you for your continued support and love. You are utterly appreciated in every way I can express. 
> 
> Warnings: Slurs, alcohol use, illegal substance use, tobacco use, violence, mentions of death, mentions of slavery.
> 
> ********Update*********  
> My wonderful mate G, to whom this entire work of fiction has been dedicated, has drawn another addition to the Charger and A Champion universe. Please enjoy this beautiful piece of art of Garrett pretending he knows what's going on at the war table. You can find more of her wonderful art at dyr0z.tumblr.com. Please support the artist! 
> 
> The Fenris drawing can be found here, as well: http://40.media.tumblr.com/48da8c925f15fb7f9a3c0c4c2fdada3a/tumblr_no61qxFir71u0qfbwo1_1280.jpg

 

 

“There is never a time or place for true love. It happens accidentally, in a heartbeat, in a single flashing, throbbing moment.”   
― [Sarah Dessen](http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/2987.Sarah_Dessen), [ _The Truth About Forever_](http://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/1032900)

 

****

“.. _ **.He's with me**_.”

For a moment in time, for all we have are moments slipping past into measured minutes of hours we never really have, it was silent. Utterly and indefinably quiet. It was the woman who broke the bond that connected them all, however briefly. With a quick curse under her breath (that only Fenris could distinguish, a quality his long ears performed well), she recovered and lowered the glass with a sloppy air. As easily as she had condemned Fenris for his lack of performance, she just as quickly painted an attempt at an alluring smile as she faced Hawke.

“If it isn't the fabled man himself, Kirkwall's Champion! To what do we owe this utmost pleasure?”

Garrett removed his hold from Fenris so that he could feign knowledge of a proper bow, “M'lady, the pleasure is mine of course.”

She wobbled upon her ankles uneasily, her eyes dancing from far more than mirth and fascination. The slight stain of red upon her teeth marked her intoxicated. Having clearly forgotten the elven male, she made an attempt to slip closer to Hawke.

Laughing a bit to himself, Garrett gave her lace gloved hand a light pat before he stepped away from her swiftly, “You're not my type, madam. I do apologize. Please enjoy the rest of your evening.”

Fenris' eyes widened in spite of himself. He'd seen the man in action but to so blatantly brand an Orlesian with such an offensive statement under the guile of manners was utterly unheard of where he was from. And he was used to magisters killing men for their 'magical experiments'.

Her body stiffened immediately with embarrassment as she attempted a smile once more before excusing herself far from the scene of the murder. Her pride had died that moment.

Letting out a loud sigh of relief, Hawke turned to Fenris. The elf made to open his mouth in retort, his brows knitting heavily. Placing a finger up in the air between them, the adviser silenced him, “Ah, ah, ah! You told me to do as I wish, do you forget already?”

“You lied to that woman.”

“You think she wasn't lyin' to me when she said it was a pleasure to meet the Champion of Kirkwall? Piss on that. Orlesians think we Fereldans are nothing more than dog worshipers.”

“Perhaps. But was it necessary to claim me as your date?” Fenris questioned, air tight over his throat, holding for a chance to exhale depending the answer.

Garrett gazed at the smaller elf for an insurmountable length of time; time ticking far off in a world that seemed distant. After letting honey eyes stare down at the Charger from his spot just across from him, the adviser spoke, “I'm not one to approve of lying. Sometimes it's necessary. If you'd rather not make a liar out of my explanation, perhaps you should, in fact, be my date for the evening.”

The sudden crash of his heartbeat against his ribcage nearly drew a gasp from Fenris. Instead, he tightened his back muscles and continued to look at the human with grave hesitance. Was he offering what the elf thought?

Lost to a hurricane of possible explanations, Fenris made no move to answer. Hawke, ever watching closely, took the lack of response as his cue, “Ah, ha!” He laughed, the sound dry and crisp in the otherwise drunken air of festivities, “Just kiddin', man. No need to get all broody on me. Listen, don't pay any attention to the nobles. They make jabs to people whom they think inferior. Nobody is inferior to anyone else. But I doubt I gotta preach that point to you, do I?” He smiled lazily.

Taking one step to the side, the Ferelden was making to leave. But something deterred him. It was then that Fenris took great notice of how the man was dressed for the evening. Black jacket, golden buttons and tassels, red sash, white pants and gloves, and dark boots shined so sincerely that the warrior was certain he could see himself somewhere in their reflection.

Slowly climbing the mountain of a man, his eyes returned to Hawke's. His jaw remained tight in silent study. The rest of his unruly features (beard and hair) had been tamed for the evening. Even his scent seemed different. The aroma was clean, like an intoxicating hint of wine.

“Well, can't go lettin' the Inquisitor face those wolves all alone, now can I?” The mage finally murmured, his path once again set. Before he departed, however, he brazenly reached out and barely –more of a whisper of skin against silk-- touched Fenris' blue sash. With a low chuckle, Garrett brought his eyes back to the Charger's. Rich copper teased at him through lashes of thick, dark black.

“W...hat is it?” Fenris finally choked out, his effort to remain level headed and evasive taking all his self-control.

Garrett lowered his hand, walking away with shuffling feet. Fenris was certain he had been utterly ignored until he heard, as if carried by nature to dance inside his ear drums, the man's reply as his back grew more distant: “You look good in blue, Fenris.”

–

Announcements filled the ballroom. Duke Gaspard approached the empress first. His gait was unabashedly cocky, demanding all in the room to pay him respect. With a bow that seemed more of an inconvenience than actual respect, Gaspard waited as the Inquisitor was introduced shortly after him.

Lavellan followed with an easy approach. He kept his head held defiantly high. Tucking his braid deftly behind his pointed ears (something such a gathering brought more attention to than he wished), he squared his shoulders and advanced.

The slanderous comments in his wake did not go unnoticed. The vein in his temple ticked in agitation as he kept his eyes glued forward. He had been scolded by Josephine only moments earlier. If he did not perform well, any advancement the Inquisition might make could possibly be sabotaged. So he swallowed his pride, as he often did in the modern world of Thedas, and ascended the stairs towards the empress. She greeted him thoroughly, her keen eyes breaking into his conscious without hesitation.

It was then that the rest of his entourage was brought before the noble gathering, his immediate party introduced first. Then, the advisers themselves. Each of the heads of the Inquisiton came to stand just behind Lavellan. Luscious titles nestled upon their heads like crowns of forgotten royalty.

And then--

“Ser Garrett Malcolm Hawke. Renowned Champion of Kirkwall. Vanquisher of the Qunari invaders. Conqueror of the Deep Roads. Mage Adviser to the Inquisition.”

Thunderous applause echoed throughout the fine halls of the Winter Palace as the gargantuan figure of a man crossed the open space towards the Inquisitor. Not before he milked the spotlight and threw a few award winning smiles and winks at spectators that demanded his brief affections. Once he was within ear shot, Cullen gave him a stern reprimand and click of his tongue. Hawke ignored him promptly, his amused demeanor driving the former templar to the end of his patience.

“You honor us, Champion,” Celene greeted, her tone joyous, if not effectively intrigued.

Garrett gave her a slight smirk, his head bowing in greeting, “The honor is mine, I'm afraid.”

“Finally, the Champion of the great city Kirkwall visits the halls of Orlais. We shall mark this most special occasion within the Empire.”

Hawke shrugged, “Whatever it is you deem worthy, your grace.”

Muffled as it was, the Champion heard a groan of discomfort waft through the air from Cullen's chest.

“Come, come now. We mustn't allow a night such as this to be spent in pleasantries. There is a ball to be had. Let us commence,” Celene finally offered. With a clap of her hands, the music immediately decorated the air. The lush silence that had filled the hall departed, instead replaced with loud laughter and open discussions of drama and discord.

Letting out a sigh he hadn't been aware he'd been holding in, Lavellan turned towards his advisers, “Glad that's over.”

“Smooth sailing from here on out, Inquisitor. Hard part is over.”

Cullen gaped at Garrett, his brows pressed together in irritation, “hard part is over? Do you even hear yourself? It's just beginning.”

Hawke let out a yawn, cocking an eyebrow, “Listen Growler, if you can make it through the gates of an Orlesian galla, you're pretty much set after that.”

“Be silent, you two,” Leliana quipped, her focus turning back towards the Inquisitor, “A moment, Inquisitor.”

Lavallen nodded, following her promptly.

With a groan, Cullen made to a wall as far from the gathering as he could afford without seeming stand-offish. Josephine found her sister and immediately went into a quick exchange of familiar family antics. Hawke watched them fondly, his own chest aching for the same closeness.

It was there that Varric finally found his friend. Noticing the longing in the human's eyes, Tethras took it upon himself to intervene.

“Leave it to you, Hawke. You sent the Orlesian empire into an uproar in a matter of moments.”

Shedding the pinning expression on his face, Garrett turned towards the dwarf with a shit-eating grin, “High maintenance, remember?”

Tethras snorted, “As if I could forget. Kind of stuffy in here. I found a place that will suit our breed a bit better. You in?”

Hawke's eyes narrowed at the contribution, eagerness written across his face as clearly as ink upon parchment, “Lead the way.”

–

As the night proceeded, Fenris found himself in an onslaught of life threatening situations. On the positive side, however, he was able to rid the world of a few Venatori. Happily aiding in any removal of Tevinter trash, he had been more than eager to sneak about the hidden halls of the Winter Palace. Lavellan had been prompted to return to the ballroom. He was expected to dance, as was social etiquette. And then they would return to their investigations. As Duchess Florianne partnered to the Inquisitor, Fenris slipped through the throngs of huddled on-lookers. The less of formalities he could suffer, the better. He'd had his fill (and then some) during his time spent under Danarius' thumb.

Flashes of his life before left him motionless, his hand placed in front of his body as if to part the sea of attendees.

“ _What are you, my little Fenris?”_

“ _Yours, Master.”_

“ _Exactly. And you will act accordingly. If I ask a service of you, you will fulfill it with unflinching dedication. Now,” Danarius drawled, his eerie voice thick and intrusive as he gazed upwards at Fenris with an outstretched wine glass, “Pour me another._ ”

“Whoa, easy there.”

Jerking back to the present, the elven male blinked away his past. He came eye to eye with a broad chest. The scent of smoke and perhaps wine (a red wine, if Fenris' scent memory was correct) wrapped around his nostrils. But even the decoration of finery and delicacies left a certain portion of this man's natural smell untouched. Pine and earth, fresh grass and air.

“Hawke.”

Garrett gave a tilt of his head in recognition, “I keep runnin' into you tonight. Must be a hint or somethin'.”

Fenris felt his throat tighten. “Indeed.”

They stood in silence a moment before the mage spoke again, “These kinda events aren't really my style. Too stuffy.”

“I would think the Champion of Kirkwall accustomed to such gatherings.”

Hawke groaned as if the memories pained him, “Yeah well, doesn't mean I liked 'em.”

That earned a brief and low chuckle from Fenris, the elf laughing into his fist. The sight warmed Garrett in a way he couldn't quite comprehend. He blamed the notion on the drink and his insatiable need to interfere and aid in crafting other's lives into something more than his could ever be.

“And you, Fenris-- are you enjoying the party?” Hawke asked in turn. Curious eyes flit over the elf's appearance. With his long, white hair pulled back from his shoulders, he seemed more lithe and angular. Even his ears seemed thin and pronounced.

The warrior folded his arms over his chest, his emerald orbs taking in his surroundings dubiously, “I am afraid my taste for such social gatherings has long since been tainted.”

He didn't need to further his explanation. The Ferelden knew enough of the other man's situation to conclude the distaste was thanks, in part, due to his time spent in Tevinter as a slave. “I see. Well, if it helps any, you aren't missin' much. Just a hurtin' head the next morning and probably some memories you're rather happy you lost.”

Snickering upwards at Hawke, the warrior gave a tilt of his head, “I take it there are quite a few instances of such nights for you, Hawke.”

“Too many to count.”

“You seem to go to many strange places.”

Garrett peeked down his nose at Fenris, his pulse quickening from the sudden change in the man's apparent temperament. Or the wine. Or the atmosphere. It was easy to be washed away in the romance and allure of it all. Sex, scandal, rites of inheritance, no ball was complete without it. His last rendezvous with such events had left him making an awkward scene within Chateau Haine. What he had left of his dignity had been forfeit upon his casing of the party.

“You don't know the half of it,” Hawke finally offered, his gloved fingertips reaching to scratch at the back of his head.

 _I want to_.

Loud thumping echoed in Fenris' ears at the unspoken confession tucked deep into the conscious of his membrane. His heart raced and his mouth dried at the realization.

“Are you sick?”

“What?” He asked quickly, his eyes focusing back upon the seemingly concerned Champion.

“You looked a little peeked there. Just makin' sure you aren't sick or somethin'.”

“It is...possible,” Fenris muttered, concluding that only illness would leave him with such thoughts floating through his awareness so freely.

“Do you wish to leave?”

Glancing upwards at Hawke once more, the elven man found himself struggling to breathe properly. The human was leaning towards him, concern written thickly upon his brow.

“I cannot simply abandon the Inquisitor. I will be fine.”

“If you say so,” Garrett responded, returning to his full height once more. He cast his eyes about the ball and sighed loudly, looking about warily. An intricately dressed woman was crossing the hoards of people. Her destination was evident. Her fan waved at him from her approach, hoping beyond all hope to gather his attention for the evening. It was the same ploy he often found himself the victim of whenever he did stomach a gathering such as this.

Fenris couldn't help but smile, his interest piqued, “Is there a problem?”

“I can't catch a break. If this woman gets over here, that'll be the seventeenth time I've been asked to dance. I'm running out of excuses.”

Alarm stole over the smaller man when he felt the mage's eyes settle upon him, “Looks like you get to save me this time!”

And like the hurricane that tore through an open sea and sky, Garrett Hawke took a firm hold on Fenris' hand and pulled him to the dance floor.

–

“What the hell do you think you're doing?!” Fenris growled, his eyes wild, body stiff as he looked about at the attendees gawking at the display.

“Getting the hell out of that blood-thirsty woman's grasp!” Garrett shot back, his white teeth bright against his beard and lips as he gave Fenris an awkward smile.

“'No' would have sufficed, Hawke!” The flush filtering over his angular features painted the elf timid as he reluctantly followed the man onto the main ballroom floor.

Once they were far enough from the sidelines for anyone to approach them, the Champion came to a stop and turned towards his surprise dance partner. “You have not spoken to any of these Orlesians at length, then. 'No' means 'yes' and 'yes' means 'yes'. It's troublesome.”

An open and eager expression, and another scrunched in disdain, the pair stared at one another for a long while before Fenris noticed Hawke's hand lingering on his.

Clearing his throat, Garrett took his hand away and laughed, “I s'pose you're right. I tend to get carried away sometimes.”

“No, you don't say” Fenris teased, his pulse steadying.

Taking a step closer, Hawke held out his hand and spoke gently, careful not to invade the space Fenris so desperately clung to. “Since we're out here, want to?”

Frozen, the elf stared at the large hand like it was a foreign object. Dance? With him?

“Want to...what?”

Garrett snickered, nose wrinkled in childlike delight. Fenris noticed, perhaps imagined, a redness hinting at the human's cheekbones as he held his hand out, “Dance. We're all the way out here now.”

“There are others more suitable to be your dance partner, Hawke. I'm a runaway slave who turned mercenary.”

“And I'm some oaf from Lothering that happened to outrun an Arishok. I'm nothing greater than you are, Fenris.”

The elf sighed and contemplated the man's words thoughtfully, his usual discomfort fading.

“I would like you to be my dance partner, Fenris, if you'll have me.”

Why had he allowed this clumsy excuse for a Champion to continue to involve himself inside his personal affairs? If he had but turned away from him initially, he could have spared himself further torment and humiliation. And yet, he hadn't found it within his ability to do so. So here he found himself, in the middle of a dance floor, surrounded by spinning couples and mirth as they stood motionless and continually gravitating towards one another. Why?

Glancing down at the large palm extended towards him, Fenris felt the nerves he'd long since mastered betray him under the smoldering gaze of the human. A mage, no less. Gritting his teeth, he reached for the man's hand and placed his own inside the offered grasp.

Chuckling his approval, Garrett brought the small elf towards his chest. Placing a hand firmly at the small of Fenris' back, and the other steady against his partner's in a classic waltz position, the man peered curiously at his company, “Is this fine?”

Fenris gave a wordless nod, his eyes darting about the room to busy himself with anything other than the mage in front of him.

“Pfft. You look like you're plotting an escape attempt,” Hawke mentioned, his leading hand tightening around the other man's, “I'll lead, I guess. I'm not that good, okay? This is actually a really bad idea but we can't go back now.” Laughing again, the human tilted his head, “If you're uncomfortable at all, let me know and we'll stop.”

Warm. Overwhelmingly warm. Where ever Garrett touched him was sent into a spiral of flame and drunken excitement. The thickness of his throat prevented Fenris from offering a reply. Instead he gave a curt nod, his mouth parting in quiet admiration as the Ferelden slowly began their waltz.

After a few stiff attempts, the two settled into a comfortable exchange of give and take. It wasn't long before Fenris found himself helping the large man through the dance.

“Two left feet,” Hawke confessed, his face covered in a shyness the elven man had never before witnessed.

“I noticed,” Fenris replied, his face uncharacteristically open and gentle as he fell into the dance.

The instrumentalists filled the room with a slowing pace, the warm vibrations of strings tickled over their ears as they curbed their steps.

Adjusting his tight hold on Fenris' hand, Hawke subconsciously kneaded his thumb into the elven skin, “Blue really is your color.”

“Pardon?” The question tumbled from his throat in a gasp, his eyes searching the other man's face fervently.

Clearing his throat for the second time that evening, Hawke looked at him sheepishly, “Blue. I kinda think it's your color.”

Fenris ducked his head down in contemplation, his mouth threatening to lift into a blatant smile. It was with great care and scrutiny that he kept himself in control. It was a fleeting dalliance. The atmosphere was as intoxicating as the drink being so easily distributed amongst those in attendance of the ball.

Such was Hawke's reasoning as well. Having enjoyed far more than his fair share of smoke and drink, he'd been lucky to stay even on his feet. The men in the smoking lounge had been in constant suggestion of another smoke or another drink. He hadn't practiced enough self restraint to say 'no'. He could still hear the half-drunken laughter of Varric in the back of his mind.

Still, it was a growing fondness of being washed away by a moment. It had been far too long since he'd allotted himself such distractions. Long before his family fled Lothering, if he thought hard enough. There had been plenty of nights he had found himself inside a working woman or man's bed, but he found his own mattress lacking in any heat other than his own. He hadn't the time to afford in such idle things.

But tonight, it was a pleasant and welcome surprise.

He smiled.

Fenris returned the gestue.

_If only for tonight._

“I guess I made good on my little white lie, after all.”

When the elf seemed to find the statement confusing, the elder Hawke elaborated. “Earlier, when I told that woman you were with me...guess I'm not a liar, in the end.”

Fenris felt his heart palpitate once more, his stomach rolling and climbing behind his taunt skin. His back stiffened and his temperature rose. “They will spread rumors.”

“Most of what you hear about me are rumors, anyway.”

“Which ones?”

Garrett's playful expression tore through the elven male's heart like a wildfire, scorching and destroying any claims prior to its existence. “ _Not telling_.”

Without realizing, the human had pulled the elf much closer. He could see the small flecks of darker green and brown within his eyes, dark lashes fluttering over dark skin. Pieces of stray white hair fell in front of his face. Not thinking, Hawke removed his hold on the smaller man's palm in favor of gently taking the strands of hair. Silently, he tucked them behind the long elven ears. And just as quickly as he had released his hand, Fenris was once more wrapped within the overwhelmingly warm and gentle touch of Hawke's hold.

The continuing heated stare from the mage rendered Fenris speechless, his own eyes upturned and wide as he tried to decipher the silence.

Just as Garrett parted his lips to say something, Florianne parted from the Inquisitor and the moment was broken.

With a nod, Hawke took a step back and released his hold on Fenris promptly, “Thank you for going along with my foolishness. I shouldn't keep you from your duties for the evening.”

“I--”

Hawke gave an impish grin to the elven warrior before he made to flee the dance floor. He needed air. Immediately.

Fenris watched him leave, his hands hanging limply at his sides. The warmth lingered from the human's presence long after he had departed. Running a hand over his finery, in an effort to rectify his clothing and busy his hands, the Charger crept from the dance floor and reunited with the Inquisitor for further investigation into the servant's quarters.

All the while, he found his mind still spinning about on a ballroom floor, nestled tightly within oversized hands and arms.

 

 

 

 


	10. Courtyard Conversations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dancing won't save this party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I'm finally back! Thank you so much for being patient and loyal to this work of mine. Life has been chaotic and unforgiving to me as of late. Personal things regarding my family, etc. So I took some time off. But I'm back! And so are Hawke and Fenris. Let's waste no more time about it, shall we? 
> 
> This update in particular is dedicated to my mate (dyr0z) who's my own personal varric to my hawke. Happy to have you.
> 
> Enjoy!

“ _How long is forever?” Asked Alice_

“ _Sometimes, just one second,” Said the White Rabbit_.  
― Lewis Carrol

 

****

The rift made a crackle and burnt the air as Fenris sheathed his sword. Upon further investigation into the unrivaled Orlesian mansion, the floors had been covered with not merely scandal, but murder. It had lead them to the upper rooms, where a servant had nearly met a premature end. Fenris had taken little, to no time, to decipher what had been transpiring. Another servant at the flimsy grasp of the humans, only to be tossed to the wayside like trash. What was a servant but a mere dalliance to explore one's interests before disposing of them promptly; politics the greater evil for such actions.

Inquisitor Lavellan had been quick to flank the creeping shadow, kicking them square in the stomach. The loud gurgle as they were hurdled through the window had been rewarding in of itself. The gratitude and testimony from the elven servant had been icing to finish the cake. They only needed to return to the ballroom and confront all parties. And it was certainly _all_ the parties. No hands had been left unmarred by the lust for change. Some for war, some for power, and most genuine of the sins, a need for reformation in the lines of the non-humans of Thedas.

That was when they had found themselves face to face with the true culprit of the evening: Florianne de Chalons. She openly pledged her support and devotion to Corypheus, her dangerously keen eyes flashing in the moonlight. The duchess had succeeded in ambushing the Inquisitor's small party in a forgotten courtyard. And had left promptly afterward, self-assured of a victory that never came.

Lavellan let out a sigh as he put away his daggers, flicking fresh blood and demon slime from his gloved fingertips, “Well, that's something.”

“The South is so entirely exciting. My people have completely misjudged you all,” Dorian offered, his sarcastic expression worming its way back into place upon his lips.

The elven rogue snorted, his eyes flicking from Pavus back towards the sell-sword they had just saved. Another testimony added on behalf of their cause and soon the Inquisitor found himself making a mad dash back to the ball. He was in desperate need of speaking with his advisers. The party was certainly climaxing. It was time they all came together for the final event of the evening.

–

Varric stood at his friend's side near the back of one of the darker hallways, the two Kirkwall residents more subdued than before.

The dwarf glanced upward at Hawke, his blue eyes just a bit more soft, “You know, you could just make a run for it and you wouldn't have to deal with all these people trying to dance with you. I mean, we ran from Kirkwall. What's an Orlesian affair, at this point?”

Hawke stroked his beard as if thoroughly encouraging the thought, “But what of the Inquisitor?”

“He's spry enough. All he needs to do is backflip over the garden wall and he's home free.”

Garrett snorted loudly, “I'd pay to see it.”

“Get your coin, the night isn't over and I've seen that man do some weird shit that would put some of our encounters to shame.”

The Champion cocked a thick brow, skepticism written across his face.

Varric shrugged, “Okay, maybe not _that_ bad. But still.”

Sighing quietly, Hawke nurtured the drink he held deftly in his hand. “If I don't get out of this suit before too much longer, I'm going to start burping the Chant of Light at Cullen in hopes of being forcibly removed.”

Tethras chuckled, shaking his head in disbelief, “How old are you again?”

“Old enough to know I'm ready to go the hell back to Skyhold.”

“Not _Kirkwall_?”

Garrett eyed Varric, his lips pulling upwards in a sly expression, “There's a few things I haven't discovered about Skyhold yet. I might need to investigate a bit further. Besides, I gotta see this through with the Inquisitor. This is kinda my fault. Corypheus and all that.”

 _Interesting_.

If Hawke intended to stay amongst the dwellers of Skyhold longer than originally planned, the dwarf knew of only one common denominator to the equation that would offer such a change in original intention.

“That so?”

Broad shoulders shrugged lazily, “We'll see. You know me, Varric. A bit of a tornado.”

“I know. I still get bills sent to me for some of the shit we tore up in Kirkwall.”

“It won't be long.”

“Hmm?”

“Until we're back there. Until it's all fixed and we can go home again.”

Varric nodded, smiling a bit to himself, “You're gonna come back too, right?”

“I can't sleep without my trusty dwarf, ya know?”

Tethras snorted, “You're so clingy, Hawke.”

A moment of comfortable silence passed between the pair before Varric, encouraged by drink and years of close friendship, spoke again.

“You're not any better at dancing.”

This caught Garrett's complete attention, his copper eyes intrigued and slightly panicked, “Come again?”

“Still off-beat as hell. As smooth as you are when you're casting spells, you'd think some of it would translate to dancing. Hell no. You're right poor at it.”

“Oi!”

“Didn't matter much though, did it?”

Immediately, Hawke's mouth closed and his nose wrinkled.

Varric snickered, “I'm just wondering how long you're gonna lie to yourself here.”

“Who said I'm lying?”

“Me. I say it.”

“You callin' me a liar?”

“I'm declaring it, Hawke. I've seen you in action firsthand, anyway. Best to leave that for another day. Back to this whole...thing...”

The mage took another, albeit large, swallow from his wine, his lips smacking at the flavor, “I merely find some of the company here tonight more enjoyable than others.”

Touching his chest as he feigned flattery, the writer smiled, “I'm touched, Hawke. But surely you know I meant something other than _my_ engaging conversation.”

Garrett sighed, “Varric.”

“Hawke.”

Again, the silence enveloped them. And once more, Varric took it upon himself to break the quiet.

“Listen, we've gone through some crazy shit in our time together. This isn't any different. Maybe you should...take some time to just...live a little.”

Opening his mouth to reply, Hawke found his answer swallowed as Leliana approached and motioned for him to follow.

The Inquisitor had returned. The evening would be drawing to a dramatic close soon.

–

“On your word, Inquisitor,” Cullen offered, his typical severe expression imprinted upon his skin like paint to a marionette doll.

Doing his best not to outwardly groan, the Champion listened closely for the decision to be made. He knew the burden all too well. Such things were not easily dismissed. World altering events would occur tonight. The last time Hawke had been forced to choose, the mage rebellion had destroyed a Chantry in Kirkwall.

' _Good riddance_ ,' He thought, his arms folded across his large chest.

Lavellan swallowed several times, the moments slipping quickly with an agonizing ferocity.

“Inquisitor?” Josephine asked, prompting the Dalish man to speak once more, although his voice spoke as if broken and coarse, empty of water.

“Celene dies.”

The look of disappointment and sadness was written plainly onto Montilyet's face. But duty required more of her than her personal opinions, so she gave a nod and made a return to her position.

Leliana and Cullen followed suit. Hawke and the Inquisitor gave one another a long stare before the looming Ferelden departed to his post as well.

With shoulders burdened with yet another life to carry, Lavellan made his way through the crowd as assembly was called to order and the Empress made to give her speech.

It was now. This was it.

–

After the chaos and bodies had been cleared of the dance floor, the visiting Inquisition was left to enjoy the finer life amongst the nobles as best they could. Briala toasted to them in secrecy. Gaspard leered at their backs and spat their names as he devoured any meat that crossed his plate. The citizens in attendance praised the ball for having been a social gathering of the ages. For those who knew the toll of war and social change, the night had left a raucous taste in their mouths.

As the remaining servants attempted to free the marble flooring of blood and decay, the Inquisitor stole to a quiet balcony overlooking the gardens. He had spoken to his inner-confidant moments earlier, the bewitching woman announcing her arrival to Skyhold soon after the night's end. Pavus had joined him moments later, doing best as he knew how to ease his lover's concerns. The elven man was thinning, waning into nothingness right before his eyes. The toll of such a large undertaking was starting to leave its markings. And Dorian, much as he made a fit in public otherwise, would die sooner than he would allow the man of his heart to deteriorate away from him.

In hushed and tired voices, they whispered their concerns for the future. And soon, in attempts to lighten the situation, the pair danced slowly amongst the soft scent of burning candles and fine poultry from inside the halls.

–

The courtyard, however, had been damaged beyond repair. The fine stones had been battered and chipped to dust, fragments of fine craftsmanship scattered about the grass. Jewels and lace fell idly to the side, having been left behind once the duchess had been removed post her encounter with the Inquisitor.

Hawke ran his fingers against a nearby statue, his warm eyes filled with memories of his own trials. These affairs never did end well, he noticed. Best to avoid them from now on.

As he strolled amongst the blood-splattered flowers, his mind flickered to a blemished Kirkwall.

 **Screaming**. The primal and guttural sound was one the duo hailing from Kirkwall had all but imprinted into their psyche long before this particular night. Fire and ash, blood and broken families, rubble and fear, glory and exile. These had all been the colors etched so deeply into his skin that he wasn't certain of exactly who he had been prior to his exploits in Kirkwall.

 **Run**. That's all he had been afforded.

And so he had, along with his friends. Yet, they'd found him. Much to his chagrin, the world pulled him back into the thick of it all.

...Had he chosen the right path?

In his heart, he knew he had. But as he turned his hands palm up, the lines and scars whispered their discontent. Had it been someone else, perhaps less lives would have been lost. He never really had been blessed with a tactful air about him. His mother had been sure to remind him of this fault constantly.

Hawke's lips pressed upward in a melancholy expression.

If she could see what he had become now. She would surely have more than a mouthful. And he deserved it. In fact, he wished for nothing more than to be ridiculed once more by any member of his family. But they were gone. And Carter was far away. Another one of the casualties of the elder Hawke's poor decision making.

His hands squeezed into fists, his nails biting into the rough skin underneath.

“--ever be clean.”

Jerking around, he found the white-haired elven man approaching him slowly.

“What's that?”

Fenris nodded towards the flowers, the blood still spreading across their petals and leaves, “They'll never be clean.”

“I dunno,” Hawke offered, shaking his hands to clear himself of guilt. For a moment, he had misinterpreted the elf's comment as having to do with his own blood-stained hands.

“It stains. Blood. Terrible thing to remove. Nearly impossible.”

“There's always rain,” Garrett suggested, his hands slipping into the pockets of his breeches.

The Charger thought a moment, eyes narrowed in upon the white and red-black speckled flowers, “Perhaps. Even so...there's no going back to what they were. Before this.”

“I have a feelin' you aren't talkin' about the flowers anymore.”

Fenris turned back towards Hawke, his green eyes hard and stand-offish as usual, “Maybe.”

Sighing a bit to himself, the Champion walked closer, his eyes on the hauntingly clear night sky, “Talk about startin' drama. Here I thought I was the king of party crashin'.”

For a moment, Garrett paused at the possibility of a smile slipping over the elven man's face. A trick of the light, perhaps.

“I've heard tales of your exploits, Hawke. I do believe that title remains yours.”

“Was it the awkward dance with the Arishok that kept me in first place?”

A pause and a definite chuckle, “I believe so.”

“Ah,” the adviser sighed, smirking lazily across at the man, “I figured. He was all hands. And horns.”

Taking a moment's pause to fully admire the elf once more, Garrett found the white of the attire to share a similar splatter design as the flowers.

“They're still rather...adequate,” Fenris offered, his eyes towards the ground and centered upon the garden rather than the large Ferelden beside him.

Humming his agreement, the Champion returned his focus to the Charger next to him. He was tired and his finery battered. The metallic stench of blood and blade filled his nostrils as he thought a moment to himself.

“I'm a bit jealous of ya. Gettin' to be in the thick of it. I had to escort people out to the main hall while everythin' was goin' down. One of the duchess' rogues took a jab at my side, though. Better than nothin'. Caught the inside of my forearm,” Hawke mused, chuckling a bit. “Good thing I'm a mage, yeah? Can't go bleedin' all over this expensive cloth.”

The wine was thick inside his blood, brewed with adrenaline and high of another mixture Hawke couldn't quite piece together. He cleared his throat, stepping a bit closer. He rather disliked seeing the warrior's eyes constantly friendly to the ground he walked upon. It was then, upon further inspection, that the mage found a large blotch of post-battle carnage caking onto the corner of the elf's jawline.

“You have--”

“What?”

“There's a bit of--”

“ _Pardon_?”

Fenris made to return his attention back to the human, his head turning his direction once more when he felt warmth against his jawline.

Immediately, a fever lit across his nervous system, eyes widening and heart thundering like the most unrelenting of storms.

 **Skin**.

Emerald eyes held fast to the angular set of the bearded man as he rubbed the bit of blood from Fenris' jaw. Thick brows were knit together in concentration as he did so. His lips were dressed loosely in a smirk, honey eyes twinkling as he focused upon his task, “See ya got a lil' too close to the target, eh? Say what you want about mages...we're usually free of debris when the fight is over. Save for a few singed robes and fingers from time to time.”

Laughing a little as he rubbed the remains clean, his eyes drifted towards the center of the elven man's face. There he found the other already staring. Brilliant hues of green gazed at him in a state of nervous energy and uncertainty. Fenris' lips had parted on a retort to such attention but his throat had left no words upon his tongue. Instead, he merely gawked at the Champion in hushed surprise.

Pale moonlight danced over the crown of his long white hair, disheveled from the earlier battle. The lyrium rustled just under the surface of his skin like water reflections upon walls and windows. Beautiful. Bewitchingly so.

Musk. The scent unique to this man and this man alone. The heightened elven senses had memorized his aura from the moment in the training yard of Skyhold. Then it had been covered with ale and sweat, mixed with anxiety and disorientation. Now, he smelled of fine rose scented water and light hints of wine. His copper eyes were no longer cloudy with drink but unreadable with an emotion Fenris could not quite place.

The only emotions he'd ever seen in any man's eyes had been fear, anger, and concern. Until recently, when he'd come to the care and camaraderie of the Chargers. It had been groundbreaking and core rattling. The small, tight-knit group of mercenaries had a family of different bloods and descents. Each one a past filled to the brim with pain and persistent memories they wished to be free of. And yet, they fought through them. They dared not keep the shackles. And so they traveled and destroyed, earned coin and protected one another. It was in these quick nights and tiresome days that Fenris had found something different from genuine hate: friendship. Much as he pretended he didn't care much for it. Iron Bull knew better. As did the rest of the Chargers. He knew they were aware of his stumbling by the way they would linger at his side, the way they would make sure to be around for his 'lone' drinking. They were readily available for one another, including himself. A true family.

Much had changed from his captivity in Tevinter. He no longer hated his life and wished himself free. He no longer plotted death upon all those that crossed his path.

He still remembered the way the Chargers had demolished any and all slavers Danarius had sent his direction. The way the magister had yelped and squirmed in his gauntlet-clad grasp as he tore the still-beating heart from his ribcage. He suffered no more of the nightmares of being reclaimed to a possessive and obsessed mater. Instead, he killed Venatori. He helped an Inquisition. He accepted...mages. At least _one_ of them. He was...changing, growing.

Now, here in this courtyard, he was faced again with a foreign expression. It was nothing of malicious intent, and yet the warmth of friendship was no where to be written inside this man's stare. It was alluring, enticing. It sent currents of tingling electric energy into every receptive nerve that dared to be noticed. Exciting. Unknown. Passionate.

A calloused thumb and index finger rolled gently in circles across his skin, sending prickles down his too-straight spine. The movements were small, nearly non-existent, but still, he felt them as if they were being seared into his skin. His hyper active awareness flustered him inwardly, his heart stuttering and stumbling as it clamored inside his ribs.

**What was happening?**

“ _Hawke_.”

Garrett continued to gaze thoroughly at the elven man, his cheeks tinging pink at the sudden rush of blood through his body.

He'd cleaned the warrior of the stain long moments ago. And yet, here he stood, continuing to touch him. His fingers draped against the other's skin lightly, ghosting over his bone structure like whispers in hallways too-dark.

It was best he move away. Too much had happened. His adrenaline and fleeting waves of memories had left him thoughtful. He was an adviser to the Inquisition and the Champion of Kirwall, whatever state that poor city be in now. He could not afford to merely act upon whatever fleeting whimsy a moment might present to him.

 **Still**.

Slowly, with great care and hesitation, his thumb rubbed upwards against the elf's high cheekbone. Again. Again, but with more emphasis on the friction between skin.

Vaguely aware of the Charger calling his name, Hawke's eyes flickered from Fenris' down to his nose, traveling further down still. His chin, his neck, the throbbing of his heartbeat against his taunt throat and skin. His eyes traced the fabrics of his finery, back up again to his strong shoulders and twitching ears. And finally, his concentration fell upon slightly parted lips. Lips that had spread in question. Lips that had found only silence. Lips that were a bit dry from traveling the elements and breathing through his mouth as he fought.

On instinct, Garrett's hand slipped from his jaw, down to rest lightly on Fenris' chin. His index finger hooked underneath, encouraging the man's head upward more.

Alarm stole through Fenris. Unfamiliarity sang as he held his breath, pupils flaring for better sight.

“...H...awke.”

The Champion vaguely nodded, his eyes flicking upwards finally, back to the other's.

“Fenris.”

Relieved to have the man speaking to him once more, the Charger found slight relaxation in his touch, “It's not necessary, I can clean it off myself.”

“I see.”

Silence followed. It was heavy and corrupted with so many unspoken truths that neither had yet to thoroughly put to words. Sometimes, however, words did not suffice.

Laughter and music from the broken ball wafted through the gentle breeze that slipped past the pair, their hair ruffling.

“Is there more? Show me where,” Fenris murmured, his heart hammering with unforgivable ferocity inside his chest.

“What?” Garrett asked, clearly not having the same conversation.

“Blood. Tell me where and I'll remove it before returning to the party.”

“No, you're...you're good.”

Fenris nodded, his tongue instinctively darting out to add moisture to his lips. The heightened tension was consuming. The human's touch grew warmer and warmer with each passing moment. The heat paled in comparison to the passion burning brightly in the copper eyes looking at him, however.

“ _Fenris_.”

It was the elf's turn to stare at the Ferelden's mouth, long lashes dusting his cheeks as he made sure to memorize every last full detail.

“Yes?”

Another breeze and dance of music against their failing hearing.

“ _Would you be angry_...”

Excitement sent a tremble through the warrior, his typical stand-offish ways shed in the poorly lit courtyard inside an Orlesian palace. The bloodied flowers and the delicate sound of fountains continuing to trickle surrounded them. An unspoken moment rendered them speechless. Time held them statue-still.

“...Would you be angry...with me... if I kissed you?”

 

 

 


End file.
